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THE LIFE 



or 

SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD, ESQ. 



IN ONE VOLUME, 



BY JANE FAIRFIELD. 



•.X>^^'V 



of 



NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 

O. W, WOOD, PEINTER. 

1847. 



75 K^^ 



Entkrkd, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 

JANE FAIRFIELD, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the 

Sonthem District of New York. 



TO 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, Esa. 



IN TESTIMONY OF THE HIGHEST KESPECT 



FOR HIS GENIUS AS A POET, AND EMINENT ACQUIREMENTS, 



THIS WORK IS DEDICATED 



By jane FAIRFIELD. 



TO THE PUBLIC. 



It is by no means consistent for one so nearly allied as the 
wife, to write a biography of the husband. There are many things 
that, under any consideration, she should not be induced to explain ; 
her feelings are often overcome by the bitterness of grief, or acted 
upon by sympathy or benevolence. " Facts, not opinions," should 
be the motto of every candid historian ; it therefore requires a biogra- 
pher who shall try a cause not from malice, or excuse from favor. 

I have endeavored, in as concise a manner as possible, to lay be- 
fore the public a few of the events in the life, and to analyze, as well 
as I was able, the mind and character of my late husband. The ne- 
cessity of expediting the publication of the work, induced me to take 
upon myself the responsibility of the task ; and as it is my first at- 
tempt at authorship, (and I trust it will be the last,) I hope I shall be 
forgiven for all absurdities of style and composition. 

Opposite views are often taken of the same events and characters, 
by persons of differently constituted minds ; and though I may differ 
from the multitude in regard to the prominent points of character in 
relation to the poet, I feel quite confident that there are a few among 
those loho k7iew him best, who will coincide in my opinions. How 
far I have succeeded, rests with their better judgment. 

March 22, 1846. JANE FAIRFIELD. 

1* 



THE LIFE 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD, ESQ. 



CHAPTER I. 

Sumner Lincoln Fairfield was the only son of I>i. 
Abner Fairfield. He was born on the 25th of Jun* 
1803, in the mountain town of Warwick, Massachu- 
setts, not far from the frontiers of the State. Of the 
family, or the ancestors of his father, little is known. 
It is certain, however, that they were French descent : 
since the Fairfield name originated from the name of 
Beauchamp. It is believed there were three brothers 
of the name came from France at the time of the 
Revolution, and settled in New England. I regret 
the vagueness, and uncertainty I feel on this subject, 
since there is nothing more agreeable than to be 
able to trace to a certainty, a line of one's ancestry. 
This, in a country like ours, made and mixed up as it 
is from among the nations of the earth, could scarcely) 
be possible. 

While yet an infant, the parents, with their only 
child, removed to a small town in the State of New 
York, named Athens ; on the beautiful Hudson. Here, 
not long before the death of Dr. Fairfield, a daughter 
was added, who, in a short time, became to her brother 
almost his only solace. 



8 THE LIFE OF 

Dr. Abner Fairfield died in October, 1806, in th© 
thirty-second year of his age. He fell a victim to his 
responsible profession, during the ravages of a pes- 
tilential epidemic. The mother, as is often the case in 
'widowhood, found refuge in the home of her father 
a plain, industrious, worthy yeoman, in a rustic spot, 
near the village of Western, Worcester County, Mass. 

Here, among the romantic hills and valleys of the 
Father-land of Freedom, passed the earlier years of 
the poet. Few opportunities for mental cultivation 
were afforded, for he was put on an equality w^ith the 
children of the family, and all who lived on the estate 
of Mr. Lincoln were accustomed to labor. But their 
dwelling became a refuge for the broken in spirit ; 
and the widow and the fatherless, for four brief years, 
found much to console them in the sympathy of rela- 
tives and friends. 

At the end of this period, a new affliction was im 
pending ; Marietta, who was now in her fifth year, 
and had grown in mind and form, beautiful as the 
first flowers of spring, was seized on the first of Sep- 
tember, 1810, by a fatal malady, which, within a few 
days, closed her unoffending career, and wafted her 
spotless spirit far beyond the taint and trouble of this 
mortal life. This was a severe and bitter trial, for 
she was the idol of her grand-parents, and, indeed, all 
who kne^v her. Her brother w^as inconsolable at this 
bereavement, and continued through life to mourn the 
loss of this radiant and lovely being. He was often 
sad — most sad when contemplating the loss of both 
father and sister. In a poem, written in manhood, 
entitled the " Father's Legacy," he shows how de^'p 
•were his feelings on this subject. 



SrMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 

From this severe trial, the poor boy seemed roused 
to a sense of his situation. The loss of his father, 
almost in infancy, and his sister, which speedily fol- 
lowed, produced in his young mind, by nature re- 
flective, those gloomy forebodings of the future, which 
haunted his imagination, and dwelt upon his heart. 
During that epoch, it was difficult to find occupation 
which might cheat the days of calamity of their weary 
length. While Marietta lived, they blended their en- 
joyments together; they ran up and down the brows 
of the hills, which skirted the beautiful country around 
the dwelling, where lived their grand-parents ; they 
plucked the roses on the mead, and loved the hours 
that were their own. 



10 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER 11. 

The most fervent affections are those which arc 
least divided. The poor boy being left alone with his 
mother, (consequently, could love none but her,) loved 
her with a fervor that scarcely admitted of compa- 
rison. She became the only protector of his child- 
hood, the partaker of his sorrovrs, and his only society. 

Dr. Fairfield died a poor man, and, in his last mo- 
ments, requested that his only son should receive, if 
possible, a collegiate education. This last request 
was the sole project that held possession of the poor 
boy's mind. He beheld in their strongest light, many 
of the impediments he must surmount. The ardour 
of his wishes encouraged him, and he felt convinced 
he should overcome them all. The project he kept 
profoundly secret ; resolved not to mention it till the 
moment of his departure should arrive. 

The ambitious boy, at the age of twelve years, 
thoughtful, melancholy, and lonely, without the com- 
mon necessaries of life, to fulfil the expiring ^vish of 
his father, left the spot that had long been the dwell- 
ing of his childhood, to join the grammar school at 
Hadley, Massachusetts. He knew nothing beyond his 
rudiments, yet, in less than a year, through applica- 
tion and most intense study, he was fitted for college, 
and entered Brown University, September, 1817, in 
advance cf his cla*"^. 



SUMNEU' LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 11 

This institution was then under the direction of 
President Messer. Those of his class-mates who sur- 
vive, have become able and distinguished men in 
the departments they occupy. Mr. Caswell, whose 
mild and bland manner, and whose excellent and 
benevolent heart has endeared him to all who know 
him, for several years has distinguished himself as an 
able professor in the high station he fills in the col- 
lege from which he is a graduate. Longfellow has 
been admired for his belle-lettre attainments ; his 
fortune and success in life, has given him the ascen- 
dancy to which his genius entitles him. The Rev. 
Benjamin Cutler has been long venerated and beloved, 
as a learned, faithful, and Christian minister, in the 
church he serves. Between these men and their fel- 
low-student, there existed the most amicable and kind 
feeling. It could not well be otherwise — he sought 
to injure no one. With a heart alive to all the sensi- 
bilities of our nature — modest and unobtrusive, though 
disposed always to think well of himself, with a lofty 
mind, and a pure ambition, it was not his disposition 
to court applause, yet his love of approbation was so 
strong as to create in his young mind an attempt at 
distinction. 

From the first ferment of his boyish dreams, he had 
nothing in his favor, neither competence, birth, or 
connexions ; and he began to feel the world a mighty 
stage, on which, it is true, you cannot establish a foot- 
ing without merit, and without labour. 

He had not been in college but a little while, ere 
the consequences of unmitigated application brought 
on a severe illness, which almost terminated life. As 
soon as his health permitted, he began to aid in his 



12 THE Lire OF 

support by teaching school in the neighborhood of his 
college. All exertion, however, was in vain ; and in 
the midst of his erudite pursuits, at the age of seven- 
teen, he was compelled to resign his eager hopes and 
dazzling dreams, and depart to mingle and struggle 
with the cold and chilling world. 

The two subsequent years w^ere spent in Georgia 
and Carolina, as principal of academies. Here, in 
the solitude of country life, his poetic imaginings 
awoke within his uncommuning heart. Better, far, for 
rest and peace to himself, and those to whom in after- 
life he became allied, that they had slumbered on 
forever ! 

Two pamphlets of rhymes were published, during 
his eighteenth year, from which he ever after shrunk 
from reading, but which — their only merit — contribu- 
ted, through the kindness of friends, in augmenting lim- 
ited means, and thereby added to the comforts of his 
mother, who, at that time, was suffering under pain- 
ful and protracted illness. 

Shortly after this period, it was deemed expedient 
that the author should fix his mind upon the ministry, 
as his profession. He soon made up his mind to apply 
himself to the study of Theology, and passed some 
time with the Rev. Mr. Cranston, of Christ's Church 
Savannah. 

Before he had completed his studies, this clergy 
man left Savannah, to visit his friends in Middletown 
Connecticut, where, in 1822, he died. This misfortunt 
sealed the future fate of the poet. He gave up, at 
once, his determination to take orders, left Savannah, 
and sailed for New York. 

Here, new obstacles occurred. After a lapse of 



SUMNEH LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 13 

months, without means or friends, (for to be poor is to 
be friendless — the terms are often synonymous,) the 
poor man's bark seemed cast upon a stormy sea. All 
but intense feeling and high thought was cast aside. 
All ordinary pursuits seemed vain and worthless, and 
for the evanescent rainbow glimpses of imagination, 
all the paths that lead to opulence and pow^er, were 
forever abandoned. 



14 THE LIFE OP 



CHAPTER III. 

" The pain which is felt when we are transplanted 
from our own native soil, when the living branch is 
cut from the parent tree, is one of the most poignant 
which we have to endure through life. There are 
after-griefs which vi^ound more deeply, and leave behind 
them scars never to be effaced ; which bruise the spirit 
and sometimes break the heart ; but never do we feel 
so keenly the want of love, the necessity of being 
loved, and the sense of utter desertion, as when we 
first leave the haven of home, and are, as it were, 
pushed off upon the stream of life." 

The decision was made. Literature henceforth, he 
conceived, was to distinguish him from the vrorld. In 
this belief he went forth ; and though he was advised to 
forsake a path that could not lead to one of roses, and 
told by others, who had already embarked in this un- 
profitable pursuit, that, the moment he attempted dis- 
tinction, he would be abused, calumniated, and sigh . 
for his old obscurity ; for this he cared not — he thought 
of nothing but the glorious fate he had in view ; to 
have an influence on the vast and ever-grow^ing mind 
of such a country as ours ; to be the medium of circu- 
lating new ideas, in a new world ; to become the pi- 
oneer, in so good a cause, of upholding the " glorious 
priesthood" of the honest and the beautiful. This 
was the highest ambition of the poor scholar. 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 15 

For this purpose, he determined and decided upon 
a trans-atlantic voyage, to visit Europe for a time 
This was happily accomplished, and in December, 
1825, he set sail from New York to London. Upon 
his arrival in the great Metropolis, wild with delight, 
he felt inspired with all he saw and heard. His young, 
ardent, and enthusiastic spirit, went out in all its glo- 
rious imaginings ; he sought the abodes of the poets ; 
he communed with Wordsworth and Campbell ; he 
began to taste, for the first time, the transport, the 
intoxication of an author ; and though he had written 
but few things, he fancied that he was formed to do 
something in the world, and in his young mind deci- 
ded he was to become a man of books, rather than a 
man of deeds. 

Perhaps no young man ever left America with 
prouder credentials ; these introduced him at once to 
the publishers of literary periodicals. He was soon 
solicited to write for the " Oriental Herald ;" a work 
then edited by Mr. Buckingham, who has since been 
a lecturer in this country, on his travels in the East 
The following letter contains Mr. Buckingham's pro 
posals to the author : 

Gro\'e End Road, St. John's Wood. 
Dear Sir : — I return the " Lord of the Wild," as 1 
should prefer inserting the " Cities of the Plain," in 
the Herald, if room can he found for either. In this 
case, however, I think it will be advisable to retrench 
in a few places, not amounting, perhaps, to more than 
fifty lines in the whole ; which, if you will entrust to 
my discretion, I shall do with all due regard to the 
unity and effect of the poem. This is a privilege 



16 THE tIPE 6t 

which we find it necessary to exercise on all produc- 
tions submitted to us ; and one to which, I have no 
doubt, you will readily assent. Indeed, without this 
it would be impossible to perform the duty of editor 
satisfactorily, or adjust the various and conflicting 
considerations of length, style, subject, and so forth, 
into one harmonious whole. 

The rate of remuneration we have already fixed at 
half a guinea per printed page ; and the usual rule is, 
I believe, that payment be made immediately on the 
publication of the article inserted. If these conditions 
be acceptable, I shall retain the " Cities of the Plain," 
and give it the earliest possible insertion. 
I am, dear sir, 

Yours very truly, 

J. S. Buckingham. 

March 26, 1825. 

For the " Oriental Herald," he wrote his poem en- 
titled " The Cities of the Plain." For all his writings 
while abroad, he received a half guinea a page. This 
offer, in the setting out of his career, revived his 
hopes, and encouraged his heart. 

" The Cities of the Plain " was eulogized by the 
press, and read by the clergy as a great production 
for an American Poet. 

Soon after its publication, Joanna Baillie sent for 
him to breakfast with her. The following note was 
received by the poet : 

Holly-bush Hill, Hampstead, } 
Friday.Feb. 7, 1825. S 

Mrs. Joanna Baillie presents her compliments to 
Mr. Fairfield, and requests the favor of his company 
to breakfast, next Monday, at half-past nine, which 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 17 

she hopes will not be inconveniently early. She is 
sorry that engagements and other circumstances oblige 
her to name so distant a day for having the pleasure 
of receiving Mr. Fairfield, but trusts that his residence 
in Hampstead will continue beyond that time. She 
takes the liberty of retaining his small volume, in 
which are much of the feelings and imaginations of 
a poet, till Monday morning, when she will restore it 
to the author, with many thanks. 

He enjoyed life when among corresponding natures ; 
he pursued the path most suited to himself, without 
declaring it to be the best for others. He was a little 
hard, perhaps, upon the errors that belong to vanity 
and conceit, not to those that have their source in 
great natures and generous thoughts. Among his 
characteristics, was a profound admiration for England. 

His own country he half loved, yet half disdained ; 
he loved a republic, yet disliked the mob. He could 
not bear that the ignorant and illiterate should rule ; 
he subscribed to no aristocracy but intelligence and 
intellect. I am reminded of a conversation that took 
place (some time after our marriage) between my 
husband and a man who boasted of family distinction. 
" For myself," said he, " I could not be proud of a pe- 
digree, but of some historical quarterings in my an- 
cestry, of the blood of Scholars, that runs in my veins. 
It is the same kind of pride that an American may 
feel in belonging to a country that has produced a 
Bryant and a Halleck." He never felt that vulgar 
pride that disdains a want of birth in others, and he 
cared not whether his friend or his wife were de- 
scended from a queen or a peasant. 



18 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER IV. 

Months passed away, and our young poet found 
himself delighted and caressed by all into "whose soci- 
ety it was his good fortune to mingle. He published 
his tour in Europe, and contributed the articles to 
a literary periodical then edited by James G. Brooks, 
Esq., in New York. In his remarks on England, per- 
haps he was just ; and though he admired many of her 
institutions, loved her antiquity, her literature, and 
system, which is so perfect, he could not refrain from ex- 
pressing his abhorrence to the conduct of the clergy, 
their indulgencies, and want of religion ; perhaps, in 
this respect, he carried his feelings too far ; he looked 
for, and expected too great perfection in men, who 
possess dispositions in common with mankind. He 
contrasted the merits of the clergy of both countries ; 
he could not find abroad, the self-sacrificing, spiritual, 
and moral men, that as a mass characterize our na- 
tion. Upon this subject he expressed himself too freely. 
It w^as his practice through life to disclaim openly 
against imposition, from however high a source. This 
frankness, without judgment, led him into many diffi- 
culties, and was the primary cause of creating to him- 
self, early in life, many enemies. 

From England he went to France. He made his 
abode for a short time in Paris ; here, his feelings 
underwent another change. Paris is a delightful 



SUMNBR LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 19 

place to the gay and idle ; but to the literary man, 
Paris is not equal to England, or Germany. There is 
too much of the flippant, and not enough of the grave, 
to interest one whose feelings were sad in the sun- 
shine, and gay in storms. In the midst of the rev- 
elries, and gayeties that surrounded him, when his 
heart was weighed down in the scale, it was his mind 
that restored the balance. 

His principal letters of introduction w^ere to Mr. 
James Brown, our amiable and excellent Minister 
Plenipotentiary to France, and the good La Fayette ; 
by them he was received in a kind and hospitable 
manner, and in company with our distinguished dra- 
matist, John Howard Payne, attended several fetes 
given by Mr. Brown, at the palace of Luxembourg. 

The love La Fayette bore our young American is 
affectionately expressed in several letters in my pos- 
session, that were sent to him while a resident in 
France. 

From Paris he went to Versailles, and had his suite 
of apartments opposite the Palace. The scenes of ter- 
ror that were enacted during the terrible revolution of 
France, and overthrow of Louis XVI., were subjects 
for his imagination and pen, 

" What a luxury is there in that first love of the 
muse ; that process by which vre give a palpable 
form to the beautiful dreams which have flitted across 
us ; the inspiration which we invoke in the sanctuary 
of our still closets, with the wand of the simple pen !" 

While in Versailles, he wrote " Pere La Chaise," 
and " Westminster Abbey ;" two of his most admired 
pieces. 

At Versailles he continued to write. The scenery 



30 THE LIFE OF 

around, and the quiet, harmonized with his feelings ; 
he read and thought much. Removed at a distance 
from Paris, where dwelt many of his American and 
English friends, he lived almost in solitude, so far as 
familiar companionship is concerned. His ideas and 
memories now crowded thick upon him. 

A short time previous- to his journey to Europe, he 
formed an attachment to a young lady residing in a 
small town called Derby, near New Haven. I be- 
lieve it was reciprocated on the part of the lady, but 
an unfortunate engagement to a relative of her name, 
prevented their union. This was a severe and bitter 
trial ; he strove to conceal, though he could not con- 
quer the emotion ; and like all men, he loved more, be- 
cause the object could not be obtained. The image 
of his favorite pursued, it haunted him, it came on 
him unawares, in solitude, in crowds. It was that 
youthful and luxurious bloom of pure and holy thought, 
which is the first blossom of genius. Struggle after 
struggle ensued, and time only served to engrave more 
deeply the ineradicable impression. He was strong in 
the belief that if he returned to America, and found 
the lady unmarried, he should overcome every barrier 
that might exist to their union. 

With this intention, forgetting for a season his high 
and noble purposes, he insisted upon leaving France, 
and immediately took passage, and returned to New 
York, in July, 1826. He soon ascertained that the 
young lady was married, but never forgot his first 
romantic passion. 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 21 



CHAPTER V. 

It is the contemplation of a different scene that the 
course of the author's life now conducts us. On his 
return to his native land, he was greeted, applauded, 
flattered, and courted, until the novelty had passed, 
by his countrymen, and countrywomen. He had 
achieved honors that could not be conferred on him 
at home ; for, alas, the Americans are a vain^ not a 
proud people. They see with other people's eyes, 
hear with other people's ears, decide with other peo- 
ple's judgment, and parrot forth other people's opi- 
nions. 

I love my country, though I regret the want of inde- 
pendence, character, and manner of the Americans. 
Well would it be for us to vie with England in prizing 
what is really valuable at home ; this we can do, 
without depreciating the good that comes from abroad. 

As soon as our author had exchanged the usual 
greetings that pass between young men and their 
companions, he began to feel, at the early age of 
twenty-two, a disappointed and desolate man. It is 
true he had a mother, and though her affections were 
centered in this only child, she had no knowledge of a 
proper course necessary to be pursued in his domestic edi- 
ucation. Instead of cultivating in his mind a manly 
and independent spirit, she sought and succeeded in 
impressing him, from a child, that he was utterly help- 



22 THE LIFE OF 

less, and dependent entirely upon her exertions. Had 
he possessed a guide from his youth, to have instilled 
in his mind that confidence in himself, which makes 
even the boy manly and firm, he would undoubtedly 
have mixed with the world, and occupied himself with 
the aims and pursuits of others. 

Why is it that poets must be children ? Why ? but 
that he who dispenses his gifts, does not prefer to 
shower them all upon one head. If it w^ere possible 
for men of genius to have intimate knowledge of men, 
as well as nature, to realize flesh and blood, to 
leave the skies and stars, and become familiar with 
tradesmen and merchants, their way in life would be 
less solitary — prejudices and envies would die off; 
they would find in the deep heart of the world sympa- 
thy with their motives and career. Some coarse and 
homely pursuit of practical life, would leave their 
minds repose, while it would bring vigor and health 
to their bodies, and render thought much less painful. 

As I have said, the author began to feel a disap- 
pointed and solitary man. He had in him a spirit of 
emulation — sometimes exasperated by the sarcasms 
of foes, at others cheered by the applause of friends. 
The desire of fame was getting to be the habit of his 
existence. With what he had written he was dissat- 
isfied. When in these seasons of despondency, he felt 
that his frame could not support his mind ; that he 
could no longer execute what he conceived and de- 
sired. 

Almost immediately upon his return to New York, 
he published a volume of Poems, entitled " The Sisters 
of Saint Clara," a tale of Portugal, written while a 
resident at Versailles. The edition was small, and a- 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 23 

it is not embraced among his later publications, it has 
been seldom seen, or read. The poet's high regard 
and veneration for the learning and literary attain- 
ments of Mr. Everett, then a professor in Cambridge 
University, induced him to dedicate to him this poem. 
The following letter was the reply from this distin- 
guished person : 

Cambridge, February 9, 1826. 
Dear Sir : — I received a short time since, your po- 
lite letter, and afterwards, the poem you were good 
enough to send me. Numerous avocations of a na- 
ture to leave me scarce any leisure, have prevented 
my earlier acknowledgement of your attention. I 
cannot but be flattered at this public mark of respect 
which you have done me the honor to pay me, in the 
dedication of your poem, and wish it were in my 
power, in any way that could show my proper sense of 
its value, to requite this compliment. From any public 
tribute to the merit of your production, you have fairly 
disabled me ; as I could gain no credit for disinterest- 
edness in commending a poem, to which my own name 
is thus honorably appended. I must content myself, 
therefore, with privately saying to you, that " I have 
read it," (namely, the Sisters of Saint Clara,) " with 
great interest. The story is excellent, the incidents 
brought out with skill, the versification easy, often 
highly so, and the range of poetical imagery wide and 
lofty." I have never been in the habit of addressing 
those of my friends who have thought it worth while 
to ask my opinion, to look to poetry as a means of at- 
taining all the objects which, in your letter, you inti- 
mate that you are bound to pursue. A professional 
career of some kind, is certainly, in this country, a 



24 THE LIFE OF 

better resource. Had you nothing in view but poeti' 
cal fame, I think you have given abundant proof, in 
this and your earlier efforts, of being able to attain a 
gratifying share. 

Renewing my thanks for your polite attentions, and 
with the assurance that it would give me pleasure to 
be of service to you, 

I am, dear sir. 

Your obliged servant, 

Edward Everett. 



SWMNF.K LINCOLN. FAIRFIELD. 25 



CHAPTER VI. 

It is quite impossible to trace, step by step, the 
incidents of the life of one so fraught with changes : 
I belie\e that part of biography which would in- 
terest the most, is generally omitted. " Thought, hope, 
sorrow, fear, how prolix would they be, if they might 
each tell their hourly tale ! Alas ! our most accurate 
confessions are a most miserly abridgment of a hur- 
ried and confused summary." 

It was about three weeks after the arrival of Mr. 
Fairfield from Europe, when he accidentally met me at 
a small party at the house of a young friend I then had, 
residing at Jersey City. We met ; two little words, and 
yet how many volumes do they suggest to my care-worn 
and troubled heart. A few brief years have passed 
since that event found me, on a bright and sunny after- 
noon, how gay and hai^jyy, few now can know, for the 
companions of my childhood, many of them, have gone 
to that sleep " which knows no waking." I have still 
sweet visions of those lost and dim remembered days. 

The time sped rapidly the few days that intervened 
ere the proposal was made, and the day appointed for 
the marriage ceremony — second only in solemnity to 
the burial service, to which it is often a preliminary 
September rOth, 1826, we were wedded in New 
Brunswick, New Jersey. 

My maiden name was Frazee. My father was de 
3 



2t» THE I-IFM Of 

sc ended from the Scotch ; our ancestors dwelt among 
the " banks and braes " of that beautiful and romantic 
country. Of my parents I have much to be proud. My 
father was never the proprietor of large possessions ; 
he w^as celebrated for industry, frugality, and a high 
regard for honor and honesty ; a supporter of indepen- 
djent principles, and valued himself on independence. 
He was a democrat after the " old school." Washing- 
ton was never more loyal in his love for his country. 
He died in October, 1844, in the seventieth year of his 
age. His career w^as closed as an honest man — " the 
noblest work of God." 

Of my beloved mother, who still survives, for all 
her maternal love, I retain a spiritual memory. She, 
indeed, has been my good angel ; how often, in seasons 
of sorrow, have I contemplated her blessed form, that 
by the rays of some flickering light, seemed to bend 
over her desolate child. With a heart full of tender- 
ness, she has ever been ready to sacrifice herself for 
the good of others. She is by nature religious, pos- 
sessing all the graces of mind and person. Few wo- 
men more deservedly merit the title of gentlewoman. 
I pray death may not soon dissolve this tie. 

I must now beg pardon of the public, if in the future 
1 am found sometimes making mention of myself 
Here, the task of pleasure-writing ceases. The future 
is fraught, not with fancies, or shadows ; but realities, 
if told, would seem falsehoods. Indeed, I am at a loss 
to know if it would not be as well to commence with 
a history of myself, since from my early marriage, cir- 
cumstances, {not choice^ made vie the actor. 

In literature, as in the arts and sciences, we see much 
to admire. It is allied to struggles, poverty and per- 



StJMKEK LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 27 

secution ; and therefore, its votaries suffer more keenly 
from family alliances. Woman is made a dependent 
being, and loses her attractions when employed in 
masculine avocations ; and nothing brings a man so 
soon into contempt, as a dependence upon woman for 
support. I am convinced that a man ought never to 
attempt with literature alone, (especially in this 
country, where the literati are beggars,) as the mere 
provision of his daily bread. The pursuit of fame is a 
pursuit apart from the ordinary objects of life, and it 
is impossible to command the enjoyments of both ; for 
this reason, the poet should be wedded to the objects 
of his affection, namely, the muses. 

Our fancy for each other was unequivocal ; how 
strange it is, that melancholy men are often capti- 
vated by the gay and vivacious girl — thus matches 
are made by the young and thoughtless, from mo- 
mentary impressions, instead of profound and passion- 
ate sentiment, which we can only derive from a per- 
fect knowledge of each other's minds and hearts. 
What a magic there is in that love which brings re- 
spect, — a sort of attachment that is abiding, honest, 
generous and intense ! 

Immediately after our marriage, my husband fixed 
his residence in Elizabethtown, a few miles from the 
home of my parents ; he did so, with a desire of form- 
ing a Classical School for young men. His leisure 
hours, he determined to devote more eagerly to study, 
and the pursuit of fame. We had not lived out the 
honey-moon, when one of those occurrences so common 
to genius broke forth. The officers, for debt, Irvirr^ on 
our household effects, and, though the sum v/a.s -)ti;ii!, 
*he money to liquidate the amount could not be ol)- 



2S THE tlFl5 OF 

tained; and in the short space of three weeks, our 
joint possessions were sold under the sheriff's ham- 
mer. Under this mortifying affliction, and before my 
husband could execute the plan he had formed of 
establishing a school, he was forced to relinquish his 
situation, (for village scandal and village gossip pre- 
pondera,ted,) and return to New York. After passing 
a few days among his friends, he decided upon making 
his native State his home ; and, in the month of No- 
vember, scarcely two months after our marriage, we 
arrived in Boston. Here, he eagerly sought acquaint- 
ances among the editors of works who paid for contri- 
butions — though the sum was always inadequate to 
supply his daily wants. Alas ! for the poor bard, he 
had not that readiness of resources — that faculty with- 
out which man has no independence from the world. 
He seemed always to suffer from a painful fastidious- 
ness he felt when asking for his own. He possessed 
an unaccountable reluctance in all business matters ; 
he would often make his mother the bearer of his 
despatches, and her verbal messages back would not 
always leave his mind unprejudiced. Upon examina- 
tion, however, he found he was not the object of dis- 
like, but his want of knowledge of discernment ; he 
wanted address — that sort of suavity which \vould 
have enabled him to retain the aid of others while in 
a state of dependence — a certain manner which wins 
its way into the hearts of all. 

How true it is that children catch not from their 
parents, only, but from those they most see, and lov- 
ing most, most imitate in their tender years. 

Weeks and months passed away, and brought with 
them many unwelcome events which would be in 



SUMNER LINCOLN I'AIRFIELD. Q9 

compatible to relate ; and which, if ever known, must 
be written by a more dispassionate biographer than I 
feel myself to be. 

Well would it be for us, if indeed the mind could 
profit by " the wrecks of every passion ;" for then 
could we measure our road to wisdom by the sorrows 
we had borne. 

Time passed on. I endeavoured gradually and 
silently to reconcile myself to my lot ; often weeping 
in solitude that our marriage was not blessed. 

My poor husband seemed condemned to a mysteri- 
ous destiny ; he had few friends now, and having 
really strong affections, he felt keenly, but rather with 
resentment than grief. Instead of mourning over cau- 
ses, he mourned over facts — he blamed fate, not him- 
self. With the foibles of his mother he was well ac- 
quainted, and though he did not doubt her love, he 
suspected her want of judgment, and pride of charac- 
ter — yet continued through life subject to her control. 

Deprived of his father's care from infancy, having 
little or no intercourse with children of his own age, 
and taught to act under his mother's diplomacy, with 
her favours constantly dinned into his ear, no wonder 
he grew up solitary, unsocial, and imperious. 

For the short time he lived in Boston, he wrote and 
thought much. Some of his poetry contains the soft- 
est sentiment. He had but one fault ; he pondered 
too much on his mortifications and ill-usage, ^ike 
Byron, he would feel morose to all who did not sym- 
pathize with his own morbid fancies ; and leave his 
best friends to write a poem on solitude. It is thus 
the poor author sighs for renown, to purchase shad- 
ows at a high price. Spring was advancing, and the 



30 Tun Llt'E OF 

poet found himself and family without happiness oi 
home. The proposal was made, and back again from 
Boston to New York wandered the desolate steps of 
the child of poverty and sorrow. 

It was on a cold and stormy afternoon, he set out on 
his journey from Boston to Roxbury, without bidding 
adieu to friends, for whom my heart still cherishes a 
fondness — on foot, without means, through one of 
those dreary New England snows, my husband led 
me. We stopped at a comfortless inn until the dawn of 
morning. From this place Ave took the stage to Pro 
vidence ; there he left me among strangers, to remain 
until he could send me the means to return to New 
York. 

At length came the time that we were again uni- 
ted ; hope once more cheered my heart. I never 
doubted my husband's determination and desire to do 
something that would place him in an independent 
position. He laboured industriously with his pen ; 
but while engaged in writing an article which would 
bring the sum of ten dollars, perhaps his bills amount- 
ed to twenty. It was ever thus with him ; the offi- 
cers in quest of their booty, frightened and alarmed 
him ; and before he could obtain the means to defray 
debts, with, as he thought, but one alternative, he 
would leave the place he was in, and plunge into a 
similar dilemma. 

A^er the lapse of a few weeks, my husband con- 
sented to a request which I had frequently made, to 
permit me to return to my friends until he should fix 
himself in a condition for a comfortable and inde- 
pendent home. 

For this purpose, he wrote frequently to Mr. Daniel 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIKFIEID. 31 

Bryan, then a resident and post-master at Alexandria, 
District of Columbia, who obtained a situation as 
teacher of a small school in Charlestown, Virginia ; 
worth, perhaps, about four hundred dollars a year ; 
not half a support, but which the poet accepted until 
something more lucrative should offer. In the month 
of July he set off upon this new adventure. On 
reaching Alexandria, he was solicited to remain at the 
house of his friend. Mr, Bryan had written some po- 
etry, and I believe valued himself as an author. It 
was not long before the two friends quarrelled ; and 
though they parted apparently amicable, the breach, 
as the sequel will show, was Jinal. 

On his arrival in Charlestown, he was introduced 
to a Mr. Galagher, the then editor of a small weekly 
village paper in that place. The mind of the author 
was ill at ease vt^hen he discovered that the place pre- 
pared for his reception was a log house several miles 
from the town, and distant a mile and a half from any 
dwelling. Although the world was hateful to him, 
this was a little too much solitude. He determined 
at the end of the quarter to remove to Harper's Ferry 
— not far distant from the place he was noAv in. He 
informed Mr. Galagher of his disgust for the place — 
gave up his school, and left. 



32 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER VII. 

Harper's Ferry is known as one of the most beau- 
tiful and romantic places on the American continent. 
The gorgeous mountains on either side of the beauti- 
tiful Shenandoah — the rugged rocks on which you 
stand, from their immense height, to view the scenes 
below, around and above, all acted as a charm to his 
enthusiastic and imaginative mind. 

He soon found himself the favourite of the people. 
He had a winning manner, if not to persons, to chil- 
dren ; he vi^as the more so, perhaps, from his own friend- 
less and solitary boyhood. Encouraged to hope fr. 
success, he did not fail to use all his energies, and in 
a few weeks obtained the principal pupils in the place. 

Just as he had formed his thoughts and hopes for 
success — his health, always impaired, because always 
preyed upon by a nervous and feverish spirit — became 
visibly affected ; and at the termination of three 
months, a fever set in. The physicians w'ere sent for ; 
they decided that the climate was injurious — that a 
northern atmosphere was most conducive to his health. 
A faint flush passed over his faded cheek, as he turned 
away with a deep sigh, and a chill sinking of the 
frame, saying, " Am I never to have a home ?" 

While yet an invalid, and before he w^as even in a 
state of convalescence, he left Harper's Ferry, and ar- 
rived in Philadelphia late in the fall of 1828. Weary, 



StJMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 33 

worn, and sad, his first satisfaction became mingled 
with anxiety — he had for a long time been estranged 
from his literary friends, and the state of literature in 
that city. He determined, however, to prepare his 
poems, and publish a volume of w^hich he might feel 
proud. He felt quite sure that fate could not present 
to him visions darker or more terrible than he had 
already felt. Alas ! he* had scarcely commenced the 
ordeal through which he "was about to pass. 

In this new publication, his most sanguine hopes 
were realized. All things for a time seemed to pros- 
per. " Th€ Cities of the Plain," the poem that gained 
him a reputation in England, with some of his best 
fugitive pieces, was about to be republished in this 
country. Just at this period, when his fortunes seem- 
ed to brighten up, he met accidentally with a volume 
of poems, the author of which was his professed 
friend, Mr. Bryan. The remembrance of the old feud 
was still fresh in his mind ; he sought, perhaps, this 
opportunity for retaliation, and " reviewed his ene- 
my's book." The review was a terrible sarcasm — the 
ridicule was more pointed on some stanzas that were 
composed on La Fayette's return to France from a 
visit to America. 

As we are sometimes punished in this life for our 
indiscretions, so the poor poet suffered for this. Mr. 
Galagher, the person formerly mentioned, residing in 
Charlestown, Virginia, and editor of a paper, was an 
acquaintance and correspondent of Mr. Bryan. So 
soon as the review reached them, they conferred to- 
gether, and adopted a plan which they thought would 
forever crush the destroyer of their fame. They 
printed large hand-bills, which they packed in boxes. 



34 THE LIFE OF 

and sent throughout the country, with directions t<» 
their agents to be posted up in every public place. 

It is unnecessary to observe that this sheet con 
tained falsehoods of the deepest dye. How this af 
fair affected the feelings of the poet, is better imagin 
ed than described. 

So strange a compound is human nature, that false 
hoods, when uttered in a boM and daring manner, 
have their influence among the best of men. This 
slander created a fearful revolution in the poor man's 
destiny — and poetry for once served as a material by 
which he obtained for himself and his family their 
daily bread. 

It was at this crisis, friendless, broken in spirit, 
sunken in despair, that George D. Prentice, Esq., came 
out at once, and forever his friend ; and in a paper 
he then edited in Hartford, avowed himself as such. 
This attachment was unbroken ; they loved as bro 
thers, until the day of the poet's death. 

I desire as much as possible to avoid making men- 
tion of myself I do not wish to be thought egotis- 
tical, or take to myself any merit at the expense of 
him who can no longer speak for himself. But as I 
sit alone, late at night, with the iinpressions of the poet 
before me, I turn my eyes inward, and awake to the 
impressions engraved there. I feel the bitterest drop 
of the fountain of sorrow, not for myself, only, but for 
him Avho sleeps to wake no more. 

Men may talk of heroism, of battles fought and 
won. The scenes and sufferings of woman which we 
dail}'- witness, would shake the courage and prostrate 
the energies of a thousand Napoleons. She cannot 
clothe herself in armour, or rush in battle ; her panoply 



SVM^Bll LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 35 

is meekness, patience, forbearance, perseverance, lovc; 
the last of which will enable her to sustain poverty, 
oppression, imposition, hunger, thirst, and all the com- 
plicated evils to which, alone, and without remedy, poor 
woman is subject. 

As the young mother turns to her infant, and forgets 
in its smiles her sorrows, so did I find elysium amid 
all my trials, in the love I felt for my first sweet child. 
Oh ! how perfect is that hope with w^hich the mother in 
her moments of despondency looks forth to the period 
when her child will sympathize in all the trials she 
has endured and known. This event, which gave new 
impulse to my feelings, created little or no change in 
the mind of my husband. In Ids extreme anguish he 
would admit of no palliative ; he converted his sor- 
rows into extreme wo. He could be severe on others, 
but if the same severity was exercised toward him, he 
felt it too keenly to bear. He could not laugh over 
his ill-fortunes. Ah ! could he have done this — differ- 
ent, how different, would have been his fate, and the 
fate of his children ! 

The poem he had published was reviewed by the 
editors, many of whom were his enemies, who spoke 
favourably of his genius. Upon the reception of the 
work among his literary admirers, he received many 
letters of commendation ; a few of which, it gives me 
pleasure to subjoin. 

New Yoke, March 12, 1828. 

Dear Sir : On Monday last I had the pleasure of 
receiving your letter dated the first instant, but 
post-marked the eighth. The volume you mention 
as accompanying it, has not reached me. I have 
called at the post-office for it several times, but in 



86 THE LiFjj or 

vain ; and have delayed writing you, in the hope that 
it would be brought me by some private conveyance. 
Will you do me the favour to inform me if it is in 
town, and if so, to whom I shall apply for it ? 

I regret that you do not yet believe in the propriety 
of laughing at " the stings and arrows of outrageous for- 
tune, the oppressing wrong," etc., etc. You forget 
that they are among the " ills that flesh is heir to " — 
a sort of inheritance, by the way, trul}- democratical 
in its laws of entailment, and not confined to elder 
brothers. 

Yours, very truly, 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 

S. L. Fairfield, Esq. 



New York, April 20, 1828. 

Dear Sir : Please forgive my negligence in not wri- 
ting you ere this in answer to your former letter, and 
sending you my hearty thanks for the volume of 
poems. I haA"e perused the most of them, and can 
truly say I have been highly delighted. 

The '■ Cities of the Plain " is a sublime composition 
— it is your best. All that is beautiful in Homer lies 
in those descriptions that are grounded on probability; 
in the delineation of character, a clear perception of 
moral worth, of personal beauty, national rights, and 
national traits of government, history, arts, etc., etc., 
together with a beautiful description of the natural 
scenery of the earth, seas, and skies, as presented to the 
eye. And what is beautiful in the Iliad, is also beautiful 
in the " Cities of the Plain " — is the life and soul po- 
etic in Burns, and the pure spirit of Byron. 

The " Sisters of Saint Clara " is a most exquisite 



I 



SUMxNER LINCOLN PAinPIEtD. 37 

piece ; you have been very happy in this. As a whole, 
it pleases me better than the " Cities of the Plain." 
With great delight, I have several times strolled 
among the tombs and mighty arches in " Westminster 
Abbey." You have really made me love to wander 
there. But oh ! I would that the names of tyrants 
and w^icked impostors were blotted out, and the mau- 
soleum left sacred to genius and virtue, 

" To Clara," is a charming production. It possesses 
that chaste sentiment and pure flow of a noble soul, 
to which every heart imbued Avith generous and hu- 
mane feelings cannot fail to respond. 

Truly yours, 

John Frazee. 



Tkenton, Nov. 22, 1828. 
My Dear Friend : I hasten to acknowledge the re- 
ceipt of a volume of choice poems from you, and re- 
turn you my most hearty thanks for the distinguished 
favour you have conferred on me, in the dedication. 
If ever I have enjoyed pure intellectual happiness in 
the world, it has been in those moments when, retiring 
from the cold mockeries of heartless intercourse with 
business-doing men, I have surrounded myself with 
the images of those friends of my bosom whom for- 
tune had taken away from me, and of whom only the 
remembrance was left. To recall their images, to en- 
]*oy in fancy their society, and to believe they sometimes 
thought of me, has charmed away the bitterness of 
many a lonely hour. And if ever I received an evi- 
dence, high and indisputable, that I had a friend in- 
deed, it is the evidence, this last evidence, I have re- 
ceived from you. But still, when I open your book 

4 



89 l-HE LlfE Oii' 

and read that dedication, clothed as it is, " in thoughts 
that breathe, and words that burn," one painful emo- 
tion steals to my heart — how can I ever requite the 
favour — how much has my friend mistaken the worth 
of him on whom his obligations are conferred. 

You know not the worth of the favour you have 
bestowed. Had you dedicated your book to wealth, 
all-powerful gold might have thrown wide open to its 
author the road to fame ; or to some colossus of lite- 
rature, and you would have gained a scarcely less 
powerful ally. But no — your gift was laid on the 
altar of friendship ; your disinterested nobility of soul 
sought no other — and all that friendship can repay, is 
this humble tribute of an overflowing heart. I thank 
you, Fairfield, and God is my witness that I most ear- 
nestly wish your sun may shine brighter and brighter 
till your glory is full, and that your name may go dowi 
to posterity with that of Milton, and Cowper, and By 
ron ; and if you rise in intellectual power from year to 
year, as you have risen heretofore, my wish will be 
gratified. 

I have read " Mina, etc.,^^ several times already. The 
dedication is admirable prose, and the dramatic sketch 
as admirable poetry. The story is simple and grand, 
and the style so chaste and unaffected that I think, as 
a whole, it is quite equal to the " Sisters of Saint 
Clara," though 1 have heretofore considered it as your 
master-piece — and it certainly contains some passa- 
ges of surpassing beauty. I could wish that Mina 
had shared a better fate, but the regret that it awa- 
kens, only proves the power of the author over the 
mind of the reader. The " Invocation" is full of fine 
ideas. I ne^er read anything that breathed more 



SUMNER tliVCOLN PAlRFlfiLD. 39 

sweetly the tones of melancholy music, than the lines 
Deginning 

" But, Holy Spirit, I have been the child 
Of sorrow," etc. 

The Sonnet that follows, recalls the " Childe" of By- 
ron, and touches the same strings that powerful mas- 
ter of the passions loved to touch. The Idealist is also 
beautiful. 

" Oh ! how I love that solitary trance, 
That deep upheaving of the bosom's sea." 

That last line is worth all the poetry I have ever 
written, and I would rather be its author, than the 
author of some whole volumes of poems I could name. 
Tfie Evening Star, however, is, in Mrs. Potts' opinion, 
one of the very best in the book — and I will not quarrel 
with this authority ; I like it very much. Of The Revo- 
lutionist, and the Scripture pieces which follow, I think 
the general remark, that they sustain the character of 
the work, is due. But I am strongly inclined to rank 
The Son of Genius first in the book. The regular meas- 
ure pleases my taste better, and the steady flow of 
pure thoughts clothed in rich language, and intermin- 
gled with just sentiments, claims, I think, the first 
honor — it is all equally fine. If any piece disputes 
superiority with it, it is the Visions of Romance, and I 
confess that I am apt to give preference to one and 
the other, whichever I read last. The lines to Luzelle 
— The Lay of the Colonist — The Hour of Death, and 
The Dirge, are highly poetic, and do equal honor to 
the head and heart of the author. The Necropolis dis- 
plays a deep train of thought ; though I think you 
rhyme it with such facility that it often exceeds your 
blank verse in melody and power. Consolation, and 



40 tUE I,tFfi Of* 

the Miami Mounds, are sweet poems ; and Rhigas is 
one of the sweetest Greek pieces I have read ; I like 
it better than Brooks's. The last Sonnet is unexcep- 
tionable. Indeed, this volume — and the public snail 
confirm what I say — this volume will carry you a long 
journey toward the temple of your destiny. See if 
my words prove not prophetic. 

If anything will ever induce me to publish my tales, 
it will be the commendation they receive from men of 
acknowledged genius, like yourself; (as for poetry, 1 
must leave that field to you.) If ever I should do so, 
and advantages should result from it, I should look 
upon it as new debts of gratitude due to you for 
your kind introduction of them to the public, through 
the medium of a volume which bids fair to be as pop- 
ular as '^ Mina, etc.;" and, poor as is the return I am 
now able to make for your goodness, no future op- 
portunity to make a better will be neglected, should 
one occur. 

Accept my assurances of admiration and friendship, 
and my best wishes for your health and prosperity. 

Yours, affectionately, 

Stacy G. Potts. 

Sumner Lincoln Fairfield, Esq., Baltimore, Md. 



Trenton, August 14, 1828. 
My Dear Sir : I have not forgotten you — I never 
change my opinions of my friends for trivial causes. 
I did not answer your note of last month, because I 
did not know where to direct the answer. It w^as 
dated at sea, and, though post-marked New York, I sup- 
posed it had been sent in by a pilot-boat. I watched 
the papers to see a notice of your arrival, for they 



SUMXIIR hiyCOLy FAIlillKLD. 41 

used to tell me of your movements, and the only men- 
tion I saw of your name, was from some of your old 
enemies at Boston, merely saying you had returned. 

I should then have written as I now do, promptly, 
had I discovered your resting-place, to say that it 
seems to me one of the strangest things in the world, 
that you should have thus early returned from Eng- 
land, where all the papers stated you were on the high 
road to distinction. What evil star, my friend, con- 
trols your destiny ? Do you believe Milton or Byron 
could have lived by writing poems in America? 
England was your post ; and, in the dark as to your 
reasons though I am, I think your return was unwise — 
and you will, I fear, think so too, unless you have 
brought with you a less unbending spirit than you 
took away. 

Since you have been in Europe, the only notice I 
have seen of you, with the exception of a letter from 
London, which spoke highly of your prospects, was 
an angry one by Mr. Gamage. I expected him here, 
and he promised in a note to call upon me ; if he had 
done so, I intended to scold him soundly for it. He is 
in New York, and I hope you will not have any fur- 
ther misunderstanding with him. These quarrels among 
poets are very wrong ; you should all be good friends 
and brothers, and praise rather than cut and slash one 
another. 

I read two or three of your letters from London, 
and intend making extracts when I get the series com- 
plete. 

I am upon the eve of closing my literary career, if, 
indeed, the life of a newspaper editor may bear that 

4* 



42 THE LIFE OF 

term ; and I believe it is rather with pleasure than 
pain. The strife, and chicane, and turmoil of a legal 
life, commences with me early in the spring. I shall 
never write a line of poetry, I hope, after I get my 
parchment. This kind of resolution is the more ne- 
cessary, as the countrj- has more good lawyers than 
good poets — and a singleness of purpose, a devotion 
of soul and body, is necessary to encounter the frown 
of fortune, and turn the current in one's favour. So 
I give jou timely notice that after the first of May, 
your once honoured friend w^ill know no more about 
Apollo and the sisterhood than the marble statue of 
Burns, which you may have seen if you went to Edin- 
burg. But, Fairfield, take care of the gentle creatures 
— I commend them entirely to your keeping ; and I 
assure you I feel a fatherly or a brotherly care for 
their growth and welfare. You may still send me 
a song sometimes, over the mountains — and I'll give 
an hour of pensive sadness to the "days laag syne," 
at least. 

But enough of this. We are journeying through a 
troublesome world, Fairfield, and I hope you and I 
won't disagree by the way. I know you will think 
less of me for my change of profession, but I must pay 
this forfeit to all my old literary friends. However, 
be it as it may, let us all enjoy as much as we can of 
friendship, cherish the kindest feelings for each other's 
errors, and elbow our way through the world as 
well as we can. Don't w^rite me any more letters 
about " cutting acquaintance," etc., or let any notions 
of neglect creep into your head. I shall always feel 
much interest in your welfare, and esteem your ac- 



SUMiVEK LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 43 

quaintance and correspondence an honor — though the 
press of business now before me, will not fail to make 
me a poor correspondent. 

May your name be immortal ! 

Stacv G. Potts. 
S. L. Fairfield, Esq. 



44 THE LIFE OF 



CHAPTER Vm. 

FoRTUNATKLY foF tlic poet, his mind could react upon 
pleasing occasions. The letters he had received be- 
spoke the admiring sympathy of the highest and the 
wisest. He loved admiration only when it sprung 
from the most profound sources — not the vulgar hom- 
age of pedants — the listless praises of literary idlers 
could not content the yearnings of his ambition. He 
was too proud in his temper, and too pure in his am- 
bition, to feel his vanity elated by sharing the enthu- 
siasm with the literary exclusives of his day. They 
even began to run down his vi^orks, because they did 
not fancy the author. He had the intelligent — the 
learned, among the people of both countries, to be his 
audience and judges. 

As it is not my purpose to enter into elaborate des- 
criptions of his character, I must pass on to a few of 
the principal events of his life. 

A few months after the publication of his last work, 
he ascertained that there was a vacancy in the New- 
town Academy, distant from Philadelphia about thirty 
miles. He busied himself at once in obtaining the 
necessary credentials for this situation. Although his 
'friends ^vere few, they were warm and enthusiastic 
in his behalf. Among them was the able and distin- 
guished advocate, David Paul Brown, Esq. This gen- 
tleman, though he pitied his infirmities, and mourned 



SUMNEK LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 45 

over his ill-fortunes, admired his learning and genius, 
and was ever ready to serve him. The introductions 
that "were given, and the assurances of his high capa- 
city to take charge of the academy, were sufficient for 
the trustees. He was chosen, and took immediate 
possession of this institution. 

This was the most important station he had occu- 
pied. The building was spacious, and built for the 
accommodation of its preceptor and family. It stands 
upon a beautiful eminence, front of which is a lawn, 
and behind a large garden. The village, though small, 
contains persons of wealth and merit ; the society of 
these, it was our good fortune for a brief period to 
enjoy. Two of the principal men that were connected 
with the academy were Dr. Jenks and Dr. Gordon ; 
the latter, whose wealth was sufficiently ample to per- 
mit him to retire, lived in a charming and rural spot, 
distant a mile from our dwelling. 

To this beautiful retreat my husband and myself 
delighted frequently to wander. The doctor and his 
family possessed that quiet manner and bearing which 
distinguishes the really well-bred from the coarse and 
vulgar. With the hospitality and kindness of this 
family, he seemed once more consoled ; and, so far as 
human foresight is permitted to judge, he felt certain 
that he was in a fair way to obtain (if not opulence) 
an independent support. 

With his leisure hours he cultivated his garden, and 
planted trees. His mind became calm — his feelings 
more tranquil and subdued as the spring returned, 
bringing its beauty and its bloom to chase away the 
sadness and sickness of the soul, that, through seasons 
past, it had been ours to bear. 



46 fHE Life of 

Woes once borne become strange pleasures to ou? 
memory ! The past has its romance, its mellow lights 
and shades, soothing deep sadness like the brightest 
hope that bursts upon the future. He amused him* 
self with the creations of his own fancy amid the pri- 
v'-ations and sufferings occasioned by the unmitigated 
malice of a host of enemies. He sung of hopes and 
fears, of loves and griefs, to find some counterpoise 
',0 the struggles of a \vorld always an alien (because 
lever understood) to his poetical mind. 

While a resident at Newtown, he composed many 
lieces that are truly beautiful. What can be more 
exquisite poetry than his pieces " To Clara ?" Clara 
Avas his early love ; and if we are to judge of poetry 
Vy the effect produced on the feelings — if it be to glow, 
and tremble and weep, surely this is poetry. Of his 
works, which have been so often printed and so eagerly 
read, it is unnecessary to say much. All readers of 
taste and sensibility assign him a place among the 
first poets of his country. When engaged in compo- 
sition, he wrote rapidly, and was truly happy ; they 
were his only blissful hours — hours of high thought 
and silent intercourse 

" With the old seers and sages. When the soul 
Walked solemnly beside departed bards, 
And lion-hearted martyrs : and o'erveiled 
Forest, and hill, and vale, and rivulet, 
With the deep glorious majesty of mind." 

In these he courted the muses, and in these he found 
poetry to be its own reward. 

In the quiet of village life, away from scenes of tur- 
■noil, strife, and scandal, that he had endured during 
ais short stay in Philadelphia, he began to feel new 



SUMNER LlJfCOLN FAIRFIELD. 47 

aspirations. Sometimes his intellect would seem be- 
numbed and laid asleep ; and that kind of praise that 
he felt he merited, produced an extraordinary reac- 
tion, from which his whole soul seemed visibly aroused. 

While thus influenced, he would revolve in his mind 
the subject and plot for some new and laborious work. 
There was no end to the creations of his fancy while 
these moments of inspiration lasted. 

Well would it be for authors if they could hear 
praise without being elated — and ribaldry w^ithout 
being depressed. The first is often bestowed too pre- 
cipitately, and the latter is so faithless to its purpose, 
that it is often the index to merit in the present age. 



4S THE LIFE OP 



CHAPTER IX. 

The poet loved aiiLlquity, not merely, however, on 
account of its antiquity, hnt because it deserves to be 
loved. His subjects were wxll chosen, and always 
original. Some have affected a dislike to his writings, 
who could not contend with him openly. As a schol- 
ar, he was profound — and though he did not remain 
half his term in college, he continued a student through 
life. Memory was a predominant quality of his fine 
mind. He was scrupulously exact in his language 
in conversation as in writing ; when engaged in the 
former, he commanded the admiration alike of the 
learned and the illiterate. Whatever were his faults, 
(and who among us are perfect?) posterity must equally 
honour and revere a man of his exalted talents. 

I think it is Bulwer who says, " Depend upon it, that 
the Almightj^ who sums up all the good and all the 
evil done by his creatures in a just balance, will not 
judge the august benefactors of the world with the 
same severity as those drones of society who have no 
great services to show in the internal ledger as a setter- 
ofT to the indulgences of their small vices." 

He began to form his materials for a work he had 
for a long time contemplated. The subject was one 
that suited his genius ; this poem is entitled " The 
Last Night of Pompeii." It was the grand and the 
ideal which appealed to his imagination. This pecu- 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 49 

liar quality of his genius remained with him unim- 
paired from his youth to his death. 

He had not written one canto of this poem when a 
most melancholy catastrophe occurred to change his 
fortunes and blight his prospects. He had taken 
two young men to finish their education, who board- 
ed in our family — nephews of Dr. Gordon, whose 
^iarents resided in Philadelphia. The eldest brother, 
about nineteen, from his fine mind and amiable man- 
ner, won himself into the affections of his preceptor. 
They soon became companions in their rambles, and 
often repaired to a river, distant about a mile from 
the academy, to indulge in their fondness for bathing. 

It was on a fatal afternoon in the month of July, 
they set out in unusual spirits to the river. They had 
not been in long when young Strawbridge, (for that 
was his name,) was seized with the cramp, and be- 
fore assistance could be obtained, he sank and per- 
ished. 

"With much difficulty they succeeded to get my hus- 
band to shore. In the fright and effort he made to 
save his young pupil, he came near losing his own 
life — he was carried home senseless. 

The next day he arose to struggle with the weight 
of sorrow and sadness within, and the gloom and des- 
olation of all things without. The whole village was 
in a state of alarm at this unexpected event, and hun- 
dreds flew to recover the body of this lamented young 
rnan. They found it about twelve o'clock the same 
night, and conveyed it to the house of his uncle ; from 
thence, accompanied by a train of brolif n-hearted re- 
latives, they bore him to his last resting-place. 

5 



50 THE I.IFE OF 

From this fatal occurrence, our home became soli- 
tary — the bell rang no more the hour for school ; both 
parents and children seemed impressed with a super- 
stitious fear. The school was broken up, and the 
academy deserted ; " the song and the merry laugh" 
had ceased in our dwelling. Had my husband await- 
ed passive under this new affliction for a little time, 
the gloom that pervaded his own raiind, and the minds 
of the people, would have subsided. He could not 
bear the aspect that told of trial and death. 

All importunity was vain — he insisted once more on 
trying his fortunes in New York. 

It would be a sickening task to detail at length the 
trials and sufferings of the ill-starred poet and his fam- 
ily during the two successive years. He had been so 
familiar with grief as to become dull to every enjoy- 
ment but writing. Sad and bitter memories were 
consuming his manhood ; even our fire-side enjoy- 
ments, that usually have an indescribable charm, were 
interrupted. He lamented the cause, but could never 
remove it. His mother, who felt as though his affec- 
tions should be exclusively/ confined to her, sought ever 
to sow dissension, instead of the happiness and union 
of us both. A difference of tastes, tempers, and opin- 
ions, led us often into opposite paths. 

What a triumph awaits me here, if I Avere dispo- 
sed to be vindictive ; how poor a thing is retaliation 
— it is but a momentary and wretched victory to those 
who suffer from wrong and persecution. 

My husband, during his life, often appealed to me, 
if I survived him, to defend his reputation. The fol- 
lowing little poem I have treasured, and will now add 



SL'JINEU LINCOLN t'AlRFIELD 51 

as corresponding with the remarks I have just made. 
It was written in an hour of deep domestic suffering. 

Oh ! wilt thou weep my injured name, 
And bear the stain that name must bear. 

When I am lost to love and fame — 
And blotted from the things that were ? 

Wilt thou espouse my memory, love, 

When I no more can brand the base ? 
And true in thy devotion prove, 

'Mid scorn'd despair and shunn'd- disgrace ? 

Speak to my heart while thus it pants, 

While thus it yearns o'er future hours, 
Ere, dead to all its woes and wants. 

It slumbers in oblivion's bowers 1 

Oh ! for a name when I am dead, 

To live till life doth cease on earth ; 
For deeply hath my bosom bled 

Since the quick peril of my birth ! 

Turn not awny vvith that wrought brow, 

As I had craved a lawless boon. 
But let thine eyes of beauty now 

Beam like sweet stars at night's still noon ! 

And tell me that thy smile shall be 

The sun of fame's undying flowers. 
And Life's will henceforth be to me 

Far happier, brighter, better hours. 

The affection of our two guileless children — Angelo 
and Genevieve — seemed to bring back to him the 
days of his own youth, when with his little sister the 
hours sped gayly. Their docile and generous natures, 
their beautiful serenity of temper, cheerful, yet never 
fitful or unquiet, gladdened him with its insensible con- 
tagion. He w^as an affectionate and devoted father ; 
he would often smile, and even laugh, when ronipiiig 



62 THE LIFE OF 

■with his children. To observe him at such times, was 
like basking in the sunshine of some happy sky. It 
was their innocence of experience, their moral incapa- 
bility of guile, that charmed him, and drew him aside 
for a while from all that wearies life. " It is these 
holy ties, and not the mocking ceremonial, that alone 
render wedlock the seal that confirms affection; with 
these, domestic retirement will not soon languish into 
w^earisome monotony." 

Natures like his feel joy even yet more intensely 
than sorrov^r. During the year that had already 
passed, he had been busy in writing the poem he be- 
gan at the time of the mournful event at Newtown. 
He wrote part of his time while bolstered up in bed ; 
for, since his arrival in the city, he had been suffering 
under the painful effects of chills and fever. Instead 
of writing for fame, he began to feel the necessity of 
writing for money. It was a cold and cheerless win- 
ter, upon the completion of the poem, that I proposed 
a journey with him to Boston to try my slall, for the 
first time, in soliciting subscribers to print the work. 
I certainly thought it an undertaking, for I Icnew there 
was but one way to succeed in such enterprises ; to 
visit gentlemen at their places of business, without 
respect to wealth or persons. We accordingly set out, 
and arrived in Boston in the winter of 1829, 

The love I felt for my children, {these real objects,) 
gathered the scattered rays of the heart into a focus, 
and served as an impetus for new exertions ; and, 
though I dreaded the publicity and roughness without, 
I knew life would go on smoother and happier at 
home. 

My exertions and success in Boston secured to my 



SUJIXKR LINCOLN FAIKFIELD. 53 

husband the means for the publication of his new 
poem. He returned delighted with the nobleness and 
generosity of the Bostonians. They are a good peo- 
ple, though a people of notions ; and, when they like, 
there are none that can excel them in good actions. 

On our return to New York, " The Last Night of 
Pompeii " was published. This production he thought 
his best — it cost him much labour and research. It 
was written two years in advance of "Bulwer's" 
novel of the same title, and copies sent him to Lon- 
don ; and no doubt served this beautiful writer in 
some of his best descriptions. Be that as it may, he 
had given good evidence of talent before this, and no 
doubt could have done nearly as well without the 
poem. 

" Many subjects," it is well said by Dr. Johnson, 
*' fall under the consideration of an author, which, be- 
ing Ibnited by nature, can admit only of slight and ac- 
cidental diversities. The book of Nature is open to 
all, and in her pages there are no new readings. All 
definitions of the same thing must be nearly the same ; 
and descriptions which are definitions of a more lax 
and fanciful kind, must always have, in some degree, 
that resemblance to each other w^hich they all have to 
their object." 

To the world I must leave this work to find out alj 
its sublime and beautiful things, and pass on to rapid 
changes, which brought their varying hues and mel- 
ancholy termination. 

Alas 1 I wish I could draw a picture of repose. Oh ' 
that here I could lift the curtain upon a beautiful per- 
spective, instead of the dark and dismal scenes, where 
the light is lost, and memory can no longer look on the 

5* 



54 Tni: life of 

form of hope. How is the bloom faded from the face 
of existence — " how is the golden bowl broken at the 
cistern !" Ah ! ye days of youth and romance, when 
there was no such thing as experience ; your shadow 
only returns to me — your bloom is forever faded, and 
passed away. 

The poet now determined to try his fortune in the es- 
tablishment of a periodical magazine. At that period, 
literature of this description was rare ; there were 
probably not more than three periodicals in existence, 
at that time, in this country. 

For the success of this expensive Avork, he thought 
it best to visit Washington, to obtain at the begin- 
ning the signatures of men of distinction. For this 
purpose, he left home in the spring of 1830, accom- 
panied by our little son. On the day after his arrival, 
our beloved idol was prostrated by a disease which in 
ten days terminated life. The news of the illness of 
my sweet boy came just in time for me to reach 
Washington a few hours before he died. Silently and 
solemnly we bore the form of our child to Philadel- 
phia. There, through the moss-grown gate, in the 
lonely burial-ground of St. Stephen's church, sleeps 
Angelo, aged four years, three months, and ten days. 
It has been often remarked that as men were incapa- 
ble of the same intense love for their offspring as wo- 
men, so they were alike incapable of the same degree 
of suffering at their loss. This may be so, but not in 
this case. The loss of our son created a fearful 
change in the mind of my husband, and for a time it 
seemed as if life itself had almost deserted him. 
Years seemed at once to add themselves to his brow. 



STJMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 55 

In his grief, he forgot he had other ties remaining that 
claimed his attention and energies. 

His daily visits were to the grave of his lost son. 
The excess of grief from which he suffered, produced 
the opposite effect on my feelings. The very fact of 
his giving up all aims and pursuits, evinced in my mind 
the greater necessity to perform the duties I thought 
Providence had fitted me to discharge. Driven to the 
fast extremity — without means to supply our daily 
wants, I determined to persevere, and establish the 
periodical for which my husband had issued his pro- 
posals. Consequently, I set about my daily visits — set- 
ting apart for this business five or six hours of each 
day. Astonished at my success, and feeling more en- 
couraged, his mind became gradually restored to its 
former state of reflection. 

In the space of three months, the accession of means 
from subscribers obtained, were sufficient to enable 
him to commence the publication of" The North Amer- 
ican Magazine. 

From the death of our son, it will be remembered 
that we fixed our residence in Philadelphia. There be- 
ing no original periodical literature at that time in 
the city, the disposition of the people favoured a work 
of that sort. Yov jive consecutive years he w^as the ed- 
itor and proprietor of the work in Philadelphia. It 
was not to that city alone we were indebted for pat- 
ronage to print a work so expensive. Our journeys 
extended far and near. There seemed to kindle a 
spirit of emulation among all to whom I applied for 
patronage ; and the desire manifested by all persons 
to serve me in this arduous and painful undertaking, 
rendered it a pleasure and satisfaction. 



56 THE LIFE OF 

It is easy to conceive the change that took place 
for a time in the fortunes of the poet. He now had 
the lash in his own hands. Although he had many 
friends among the editors, there were many who wan- 
tonly attacked him. Upon these he did not fail to ex- 
ercise his epigramatical faculties. As he was pro- 
gressively prosperous, his mind became strengthened 
— ^the gay faces of people with whom business led him 
to converse, created for a time a happy change ; and 
were it not that the child to whom genius is allotted can- 
not long endure the same scene, his course might from 
this period have been one of serenity and composure. 

As I am describing some of the principal events, 
not the minute details of the life of my husband, I pass 
over five years — the only period in his career that was 
calm, practical, and quiet. At thirty-five years of age, 
he began to feel the littleness of all things, the 
vanity of ambition, and the folly of fame. He had 
been always looking for something too refined and ex- 
alted for human life, and every new proof of unwor- 
thiness in men, saddened or revolted a mind that ex- 
pected perfection, w^here, from the combinations of 
human passions, he should have looked for frailty. 

It is a fearful crisis when the heart palls and sick- 
ens at everything. When this is the case, inquiries 
are made by the common observer into the cause. 
The world cannot comprehend the drudgeries and 
"toils, the w^earying fatigues of literature, with all its 
small enmities, its meagre and capricious rewards. 

It is not time that robs us of the zest for life ; it is 
experience and disappointment. 

For five years, with our united efforts, he had been 
barely able to pay his expenses. The means requisite 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 57 

to sustain the magazine amounted yearly to the sum 
of three thousand dollars. This amount, together with 
travelling expenses and the means of living, required 
on my part much labour and energy. The publicity 
to which, during a long period, I was necessarily ex- 
posed, was a source of trial to my husband, which, 
with his sensitive mind, he could no longer bear. He 
became wearied with the out-door labour, and dis- 
gusted with the miserable recompense which years of 
thought and toil had earned ; for, after all, it is more 
the hope of ultimate competence than the love of 
glory that awakens the indolent mind, and strengthens 
the feeling heart, amidst midnight studies of every 
age. Did famished Otway look into futurity for fame, 
or around him for bread, when he was writing the 
"Venice Preserved," during his last three days of 
famine ? What tortured the burdened soul of Chatter- 
ton ? — The want of gold. What roused the burdened 
spirit of Goldsmith, in the darkness of his prison-house, 
to compose the inimitable " Vicar of Wakefield ?" — 
The hope of release. Great minds have struggled on 
through all the evils of poverty, persecution and 
scorn — but that which they philosophically endured, 
they did not idly praise. They felt that whatever 
might be the inherent or attendant vices of opulence 
and luxury, poverty and privation were a terror and 
a judgment. 

The acquisition of riches to men of genius, is general- 
ly supposed to operate in repressing its growth. Alas ! 
the calm sunshine of even-tide has been seldom known 
to shed its genial influences upon the lives of celebra- 
ted men. 

The poet, weighed down by care and labour, sold 



58 THE LIFE OF 

his magazine in 1838, to James C. Brooks, Esq., of 
Baltimore. The work, I believe, ceased its existence 
in less than six months afterwards. From this fatal 
period commenced the decline of the poor poet ; his 
spirits began to sink without any specific cause, and 
he seemed to hasten a career which, during his whole 
life, he most feared and dreaded. He began to be re- 
gardless of everything around, as his irregular habits 
grew upon him. It was not long before his constitu- 
tion began to suffer from severe attacks of epilepsy. 
The exposure and suffering to which he became 
inured brought on a complication of diseases which 
lasted during life. 

For the last five jj'ears of his life he was unable to 
make any exertion whatever for the support of his 
family, which consisted of five young children. Re- 
duced to poverty and suffering, how did my heart 
yearn over these innocent ties ! Our household effects, 
together with a fine library of historic and literary 
books, he had been for years gathering, were all, like 
our hopes, scattered to the winds, and the home that 
had been made cheerful by the combined efforts of us 
both, was now desolate and forsaken. 

As a last resource, by the kind assistance of friends 
in my native country, and in the British provinces of 
America, I was enabled to undertake the publication 
of my husband's poetical works. 

How often have I seen him in the midst of distress, 
in his hours of reflection, with his feeling heart sunk 
under the consciousness of suffering he had brought 
on himself and family ! The last year of his life, his 
anxiety for his children hung heavy upon him. Dur- 
ing that time, and the two preceding years, I was ab- 



SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD, 39 

sent — part of the time in Europe, and the remaining 
time in the West Indies. During the last few days 
previous to his decease, he frequently expressed a 
wish to see both myself and his eldest daughter. His 
mind at times was wandering. When he alluded to 
his approaching dissolution, his heart was touched with 
pure and unmingled sorrow. He knew the event was 
likely to happen soon. He left Philadelphia in the 
fall of 1843, with his mother, and arrived in New Or- 
leans the following spring of 1844, Soon after his 
arrival, he accidentally met with his old college friend, 
George D. Prentice, Esq,, the friend of all friends^ 
who had stood by him in seasons of adversity, w^hen 
all others had forsaken him. Like the good Samari- 
tan, he was ever ready to administer aid and conso- 
lation to his afflicted brother. This unexpected meet- 
ing gave a momentary satisfaction to his features, 
though the stampof death was impressed on his coun- 
tenance. He appeared already on the brink of eter- 
nity. He ate little, and seemed entirely to have lost 
the tone of his stomach. He often spoke of his children, 
and manifested great solicitude for their welfare. He 
had a perfect love for religion ; and, though he despised 
cant and hypocrisy, he revered the true and sincere 
worship of the heart. Though bred a Protestant, he 
doubted the genuineness of all creeds except the Cath- 
olic. This church he believed to be the church of 
Christ, founded hy him and his apostles. 

He had walked about until the day of his death ; 
he continued in prayer the greater part of the night 
previous. On the day following, he went into an adja- 
cent room, and returned. In making the effort to get 
into bed, he fell on his face, with a slight tremor of 



60 THE LIFE OF 

his wasted form, and in a moment the vital spark had 
fled. In New Orleans, on the sixth of March, 1844, in 
the forty-first year of his age, the sufferings of this 
ill-fated genius w^ere terminated, and a life closed 
which had been embittered by want, suffering, and 
persecution. 

His death excited a sad and mournful sensation in 
New Orleans, and throughout the country. His re- 
mains lie interred in the " Cypress-Grove Cemetery," 
about three miles distant from the city. There, far 
from the objects of his love, his home, and friends, 
his ashes repose among strangers, unnoticed and un- 
known — without a slab or stone to direct the lovers 
of his muse to the narrow house of the poor bard. 
Surely a tribute is due to his memory, whose talents 
for ages to come will do honour to the American 
name. Let it not be said that Sumner Lincoln Fair- 
field, the Poet, has no grave ! 

The following pathetic and beautiful poem, by my 
husband, was addressed to me a few days before he 
died, and was the last breathings of his poetic spirit 
before it took its flight. 

Dove of the Deluge ! wearied are thy wings, 

Winnowing the void air on thy flight with me ; 
Yet every sunbow o'er thy beauty flings 

The heart's bloom, born of God's infinity. 
Lone, faint, o'ercast by huddled worlds of gloom, 

Wronged by the heartless, wrecked in reach of bliss, 
O'er life's Sahara, on to unknown tomb, 

Alone I wander — hopeless but for this — 
This beauty of the blossom, breathing heaven 

O'er earth's dark, withering woes — o'er tempest Time- 
Stumbling on Doubt's wild mountains ! yet 'tis given 

Despair to know Love makes ite own sweet clime, 



SUMKER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 61 

O'er crashing wreclc and smouldering ruin flies, 

Its cherub pinions flashing glory back, 
The holy smile of Eden in its eyes, 

And angel hosts triumphing in its track. 

Oh ! but for this — for thee — divinest child 

Of sorrowing, sinning Earth ! Time had not now 
Hurled howling tempests o'er my spirit wild, 

And left its lightnings on my blasted brow. 
Supremest Good bequeathed thee to impart. 

E'en to dim Earth, the blooming light of Love, 
And, though the footsteps falter, still the heart 

Seeks thee, its ark, lone wandering deluge dove ! 

Through fleckered clouds the molten moonlight streams, 

As o'er my spirit floats thy smile of youth ; 
Visions of Arcady and Argolic dreams 

Wear, to my yearning gaze, the garb of Truth ; 
And all that Nature, through its myriad spheres, 

Could frame, in thy sweet bosom hath its home, 
yet o'er the Fast swirls a dark sea of tears. 

And sighing Sorrow dims the days to come. 

What but blest knowledge of thy sweetest spirit 

Hath Time vouchsafed through all its years of woe ? 
What its sad eras given me to inherit ? 

Bereavement, want, and malady, that grow 
By needing nutriment ; 'mid vivid flame 

Doomed e'er to dwell, yet destined ne'er to die, 
The martyr mind, through lingering years the same, 

Still from the burning bush glares on the blackened sky. 
And finds no fellowship in any world ; 

Or avalanche, or earthquake, maelstrom, ocean, 
fn the dread wrath of Ruin — each hath hurl'd 

Its maniac vengeance, 'mid the mad commotion 
Of anarch Wo — Time's tyrant reigns alone ! 

With giant strides, he treads the voiceless waste ; 
Without a smile, mounts empire's gory throne ; 

Onward looks hopeless — darkly on the Past ! 

6 



62 THE LIFE OF SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 

Bride of my bosom ! though denied on earth, 

Blend thy blest spirit with my saddened thought, 
And breathe the blessing of love's holiest birth 

Around life's pathways ; what deep skill hath wrought, 
Refine thou and exalt ; be with me, Love ! 

In trial, toil, temptation — guide and guard 
My erring steps — and oh ! my prophet dove ! 

Hail to heaven's shore thine own lamenting bard ! 



THE 



SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA 



A TALE OF PORTUGAL. 



BY SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. 



THE 



SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 



A TALE OF PORTUGAL. 



CANTO I. 

I. 
'Tis the bridal of nature, the season of spring, 
When Pleasure flits round on her diamond wing, 
And the spirit plays brightly and softly and free, 
Like gem-dropping beams on a boundless blue sea, - 
And the young heart is lit by the beams of love's eye, 
Like an altar of perfume by fires of the sky. 
'Tis the heart-blooming season of innocent love. 
When the green growing mead and the whispering 

grove. 
And the musical stream, as it purls o'er the dale. 
And the flowers "svhose lips zephyr w^oos in the vale, 
Are seen with the spirit of thrilling delight 
As visions of beauty too passingly bright, 
And heard like the songs that come o'er us in dreams 
When the soul's magic light through infinity gleams. 
The gay Earth is vestured with verdure and flowers, 
And hope sings away the sweet sunny hours, 
While bathing in sunbeams, or over the sky 
Her star-pinions waving through glories on high. 

6* 



66 THE SISTESS OF S.VIXT CLARA. 

The citron groves throw on the wings of the breeze 
Their balm-breathing flowers, and the green orange 

trees 
Harp sweetly in airs from the hill and the sea, 
Like lyres heard unseen singing joys yet to be. 
O Eden of beauty ! Lusitania ! the sun 
Loves to linger a while, vvhen his journey is done, 
On the lofty twin Pillars, whose brows in the sky 
Gleam bright w^hen the sun-god rides flashingly by, 
Which stand in their might 'mid the waves of the sea — 
Abyla and Calpe — unconquered and free. 
And Cintra's dark forests look smilingly on 
Apollo descending from his chariot throne, 
While Estrella's lagoon, green Escura receives 
Sheen tints of his rays from the wood's gilded leaves, 
And Tajo's broad bay like a mirror reposes 
'Tween a heaven of light and a garden of ros«%, 



The sun's last beam of purple light 
Blazons proud Calpe's castle height, 
And over Lusitania's sea 
Looks with a smile of melody. 
The volcan fires of ^Etna glow, 
Brighter as sinks Hyperion low, 
And, 'mid the gathering twilight high 
Stromboli flames against the sky, 
O'er dark -blue ocean's billowy foam, 
To light the wandering sailor home. 
Child of the sun, the dusky Moor 
Watches the horizon, bright obscure. 
And, while the proud muezzin calls 
Devotion's hour from Ceuta's walls, 



THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 67 

Throws his keen eye's far-searching glance 

O'er the dark billows as they- dance 

Along the Mauritanian shore, 

And listens to their surging roar 

Around Abyla's basement deep, 

Lest in tired nature's twilight sleep 

The foe upon his guard should steal, 

And gain the pass ere trumpet peal. 

Adverse, the gallant Briton's eye, 

From Calpe's height gleams o'er the sky, 

And marks with all a sailor's pride 

The vast sail gleaming o'er the tide. 

While every breeze that comes from far 

Wafts music from red Trafalgar. 

Evening's dim shadow o'er the close, 

Fair Lusitania ! and the rose 

Of morning blushes o'er thy plains 

With the same rich and gorgeous light 

As when his warlike, wild Alains, 

O'er forest, flood, and vale, and height, 

From Volga's banks Respedial led 

To Tajo's darkly wooded shore. 

Though where they warr'd or why they bled 

None know or name forevermore. 

And the sun rolls his last faint beam 

O'er princely dome, rose-margined stream, 

And almond grove and jasmine bower, 

With the same smile as when the earth 

Blushed in the beauty of her birth. 



The full-orbed moon is gleaming bright 
On Cintra's dark and rocky height. 



68 THE SISTERS OF SAIXT CLARA. 

And on verandah, turret, tower. 
Palace and fane at this still hour 
Glows with a radiant smile of love, 
And gilds the music-breathing grove 
With those pure beams of light serene, 
Which sanctify the peaceful scene. 
From w^ave and dome and field and grove 
Rise the soft notes of pleading love, 
And many a strain is heard from far 
Of wandering lover's sweet guitar, 
And in the songs he fondly sings 
His glowing heart finds rainbow wings, 
Which bear his spirit's powers afar 
Unto his being's guiding star. 
Dian — the queen of sighs and tears. 
Her richest robe of beauty wears, 
And smiles to hear the vows that rise 
Beyond her empire in the skies, 
While still she weeps, in prescient pain, 
That passioned love is w^orse than vain. 

IV. 

St. Clara's dark and massy pile, 

Where sunbeams fall but never smile, 

'Mid the dense cypress grove uprears 

Its ivied turrets, gray with years. 

And, where the shadowy moonlight falls, 

Uplifts its blackened prison walls. 

Within whose solitary cells 

Tearless despair forever dwells. 

And sin, beneath devotion's name. 

Reposes in its sacred shame, 

While deeds 'twould sear the tongue to tell 

Are done in murder's fatal cell. 



THi: SI5TKKS or SAINT CLARA. 69 

Within St. Clara's cloistered gloom, 

A living grave, a vital tomb, 

Two lovely vestals, young and fair, 

In misery dwelt and dark despair. 

Their loves and hopes and feelings chained, 

Lone sorrow o'er their being reigned, 

'Till hope arose upon their eye, 

And love's ecstatic witchery 

W -^ke the fond hearts that had been crushed, 

And the soul's sunlight current gushed. 

Like roses budding on one stem 

Or blending hues of opal gem, 

Lonely they sat within their cell. 

Silent till expectation's swell 

Burst o'er each thought and feeling high. 

Like sunshowers from the azure sky. 

Round them the full heart's stilness hung, 

'Till Zulma's glowing feelings sprung 

To words that flowed like morning's beam, 

Or song from lips of seraphim. 

" Sweet Inez ! fast the fearful hour 

" When we shall spurn monastic power, 

" Doth hasten, and our spirits' might 

" Must dare the ordeal of to-night. 

" The church's power, or father's ire, 

" And Heaven perchance, will all conspire 

" To cloud young love's ascending sun ; 

" Then, Inez, 'til the deed is done, 

" And we have passed their power's extent, 

" Let not thy dove-like heart relent 

" Nor fancy picture punishment." 

" Oh, lovely Zulma ! hope is light 

" Within my trembling heart to-night, 



to THE' SISTEKS OF SAINT CLAKA. 

" And fain this bosom yet would prove 

*' The silent joys of blissful love. 

" But, ah ! my path in life hath been 

" So full of grief, and every scene 

" Of joy so soon hath changed to woe, 

" Life's common bliss I ne'er shall know 

" Till my lone heart hath ceased to beat 

" Within the snow-white winding-sheet." 

On her pale cheek and blanching brow 

Hope's feverish hectic ceased to glow 

And o'er her bosom came the blight, 

The darkness of perpetual night. 

The gloom of days that long had vanished, 

And thoughts, that never could be banished. 



Zulma's high spirit at the view 

Of peril more undaunted grew. 

And glowed 'mid sorrow's gathering gloom 

Like angel faith above the tomb. 

In danger's hour she stood alone, 

'Mid fearful things the fearless one, 

And, as her sunlight spirit burned 

O'er the deep darkness of despair, 

The trembling fears of all she turned 

To hopes, and left them smiling there. 

Her broad high brow the throne of thought, 

And features into spirit wrought ; 

Her star-beam eye and face of light, 

And moulded form that chained the sight. 

And swan-like neck, and raven hair. 

And swelling bosom, richly fair. 

Which rose and sunk, like moonlight seas, 

In its deep passion's ecstacies, 



Tnr. sI^TEKS OI SAINT CX.VRA. 7t 

As if her mighty heart were swelling 

In sun-waves for its heavenly dwelling ; 

All spake a spirit proud and high, 

A wandering seraph of the sky, 

And such was Zulma ; sorrow's night 

Might its dark shadows o'er her cast, 

But the deep gloom her spirit's light 

Changed into rose-beams as it past ; 

She had one aim, and none beside 

Could bend her lofty lightning pride. 

And, ere she drooped, she would have died. 

Vemeira knew his daughter well. 

And chained her spirit in a cell 

Ere she could know the desolate 

And hopeless woe of such a fate, 

And 'twas to bless an elder child 

He crushed that soul, so proud and wild. 

VI. 

Timid and fearful as the fawn, 
That searches ere it treads the glade, 
Yet lovely as a spring-time dawn 
In robes of rosy light arrayed ; 
Warm, feeling, soft and delicate 
As the last blush of summer eve, * 
Yet trembling at the frown of Fate, 
Lest, while her heart did sadly grieve, 
Sin should assume the garb of woe, 
And shroud in gloom devotion's glow ; 
Inez, though fair as forms that rove 
Round Fancy's fondest dream of love. 
Was tender, gentle, fragile, frail. 
And shrinking as the violet pale 
^Vhich blooms in solitary vale, 



72 THE SiSTlvRS OF SAl>r CLARA. 

By zephyr fanned and breathed alone, 
Unseen, unsought, unprized, unknown. 
Feelings suppressed and thoughts untold 
Flowed silently, like molten gold. 
O'er her fond heart, while virtue's sun 
Threw glory o'er them as they run. 
Her smiles and tears alike were born 
In purity of virgin love. 
And, like bright Eos, child of morn, 
She drank at streams that gush above : 

"or sweetness such to her was given, 
Her faintest prayer was heard in heaven. 

VII. 

When Zulma heard her sister's plaint, 
And saw her gentle spirit sink. 
Her soul arose in power — " To faint 
" While standing on dark ruin's brink 
" Were madness worse than mirth in death 
" When love and bliss our flight await 
" To quail, to droop despair beneath 
" Were folly that deserved the fate." 
" But if we fail " — " It cannot be ! 
" Love, like the mountain breeze, is free, 
" And, amid peril, wrong and ill, 
" Strong as the gale that sweeps the hill, 
" Or severing ocean in its might, 
" Brings long lost treasures into light." 
" But will beholding heaven approve 
" Our broken vow^s for earthly love ?" 
'• St. Mary shrive thee ! would'st thou be 
'• A vestal in hypocrisy ? 
" Oh, gentle Inez, guard thy love ! 
* Count Dion's daring quest would prove 



THE SISTERS CF SAINT CLABA. 78 

•* But folly's dream in evil hour, 

•« If thou dost spurn the boy-god's power." 

Inez arose, her blue eye flowed 

In gushing tears of pearly light — 

" Zulma ! my heart were ill-bestowed 

" If Dion called me false to-night." 

" Vemeira's daughter still ! — O Heaven ! 

" Love's messenger his call hath given ! 

" Inez ! that rose, by Dion thrown, 

" Lay on thy heart — it is thine own — 

" And haste thee, for we must be gone !'* 

The soft strain of a sweet guitar 

Now mellowed came as if from far, 

But, skillful in its measured fall. 

It rose by dark S:. Clara's wall, 

And, mastered by Prince Julian's hand, 

Its sweet notes flowed so richly bland, 

They told unseen the minstrel lover, 

And Zulma's soaring spirit over 

Threw breathless rapture as she fled 

From her lone cell with footstep light, 

While Inez' heart, at every tread. 

Spake like deep voices of the night. 



Queen of the skies ! why should the beams 
Of thy soft eye so richly glow 
O'er scenes that darkest gloom beseems, 
As fitting their soul-harrowing woe ? 
Why should thy smile alike illume 
Despair and Hope, and Love and Hate, 
The bridal mansion and the tomb, 
Hearts full of bliss and desolate ? 

7 



74 THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 

Empress of Heaven ! oh, thou wert made 
For blooming hearts and tearless eyes, 
To light the spirit's serenade. 
And high-soul'd love's fond ecstacies ; 
And, when young Time in Eden's bowers 
Wore radiant crowns of fragrant flowers, 
While innocence with him would rove 
In soothing shade of fair-leaved grove. 
And love was bliss and truth its own 
Blest guerdon in the morning's sight, 
When angels looked from Glory's throne 
And threw around her robes of light ; 
Ere woe was born of sin, and crime 
Blotted from man's corrupted heart 
The fairest name that youthful Time 
Had written there with magic art ; 
Ere the sad hour man's father fell, 
And o'er his fall rose shouts from hell, 
Thou, sky-throned Isis ! from above, 
Saw'st nought but pure unconscious love 
Beneath the azure sky — whose sun 
Smiled on each deed by mortals done. 
Alas ! thou now art doomed to gaze 
Upon a world so dark and fell. 
That thy most pure and lovely rays 
Reveal man's heart a living hell ! 

IX. 

On the young vestals' desperate flight 
Thou didst look dovra with smile as gay 
As it had been their bridal night. 
And they were led in fair array 
O'er bright saloons and marbled halls ; 
And on St. Clara's prison walls 



THE SISTERS OF SAIIVT CLAHA. 76 

Thy gleaming radiance shone as fair 

As if delight were smiling there ; 

And on the lovely Inez' eye 

As she and Zulma fled in fear, 

Thy rays were thrown from yon blue sky. 

Unconscious that they lit a tear. 

Crossing the cypressed cemetry, 

They hurried on with unheard tread 

'Till they had gained the boundary 

Of the lone empire of the Dead, 

When, ere the signal could be given 

To those who watched beyond the wall, 

Inez stretched forth her hands to Heaven, 

Weeping as if the hour when all 

Her hopes should die had come and spread 

Its pall o'er life — and thus she said ; — 

" Now, ere we part, sweet Zulma, say 

" Thou lov'st me as in childhood's day, 

" When we together fondly strayed 

" Through arboured groves and green- wood shade 

" Plucked roses on the mead to crown 

" The hours we loved to call our own, 

" And felt that heaven looked smiling down, 

" When none beneath the laughing sky 

" Were half so gay as thou and I. 

" Tell me the bloom of life's young flowers 

" Still lingers round thy changeless heart, 

"And that the joy of happier hours 

" Will never from thy soul depart !" 

" Now ere we part ! a strange prelude, 

" Fair sister ! to the heart's high bliss ; 

" Thy very spirit is imbued 

" With doubts and fears — away with this ! 



7G THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLAKA. 

" Thou art my sister ! droop not now, 
" Remember thine and Dion's vow ! 
" They hear our rustling in the shade — 
" Here is the cord-wove escalade — 
" Now, Inez, fearless follow me, 
" Doubt not, we must and shall be free.** 
Unfaltering Zulma scaled the height, 
Cheering the lovely nun to speed. 
And then flew down with footstep light 
To Julian's arms, most bkst indeed. 
The solitary vestal stood 
A moment ere she dared to climb, 
And in that moment's solitude 
Her stolen flight appeared like crime ; 
She was so pure, so lovely, sin 
Tinged not a thought her soul within. 
But Dion hung upon the height. 
And step by step she climbed above. 
Her hand was stretched, in wild delight,. 
To grasp that of her only love. 
When fancied guilt and dark despair 
Canje o'er her as she lingered there, 
And her brain reeled in dizziness ; 
She heeded not the cries below. 
She could not see nor hear nor know 
The insupportable distress 
Of those who saw her form on high, 
Delirium in her swimming eye ! 
One last shrill shriek of wild affright, 
The falling form that met his sight. 
The hollow groan, that rose and fell 
Upon his heart like ruin's knell, 



THE SISTEKS OF SAINT CLARA. 77 

X. 

" Away — away ! Prince Julian, fly ! 

" The alarum bell is pealing high, 

" And ruthless hordes of vestal fiends 

'' Are rushing hither !" — Who ascends 

Again that dreadful wall, so late 

Scaled with a look that smiled at Fate ? 

'Tis Zulma — " Julian ! leave me now, 

*' For I must share the death I wrought, 

" And consummate my vestal vow 

" In pain and darkness as I ought." 

She rose to give her purpose deed. 

When Dion barred her path and cried — 

•' Prince Julian ! as thou would'st in need, 

" And when despair hath humbled pride, 

" Crave mercy of the Power on high, 

" Seize Zulma quick, and fly, fly, fly !" 

In passion wild and wildered fear 

The Prince obeyed the wise behest. 

And grasped the heroic maiden ere 

Her deed had left him thrice unblest, 

And, ere a moment more had flown, 

The.high-soul'd nun and Prince had gone. 

Count Dion watched till they had fled, 

Then sprung below among the dead. 

Where headstones gleamed to mock the gloom, 

The desolation of the tomb. 

Gently he raised the unconscious nun. 

And laid her bleeding on his breast, 

Thus — even thus, a blessed one 

To pillow such a form to rest ; 

While, as he gazed in speechless woe 

On her soft, lovely features graven 



78 THE SISTERS OF SAIAT CLARA. 

With death's dark lines, he saw below 

Nor love nor joy, nor hope in heaven. 

But scarce the space of lightning's glare 

Was left to muse of his despair, 

Or soothe the suffering Inez there, 

The cloister horde by Clotilde led. 

Exulting that their holy hate 

Could now be poured on beauty's head 

And virtue's bosom desolate. 

Rushed like hyena troops upon 

The gallant Dion — but, appalled 

By his proud port, though all alone 

He stood — they paused and shrilly called 

The faggot priest, their alguazil. 

To guard the holy cloister's weal. 

Folding his bosom's dying bride 

With one strong arm unto his breast. 

And with the other waving wide 

Iberia's sword that many a crest 

Had cloven in the deadly fray. 

He bade the throng yield ample way, 

And sprung upon the ladder's height ; 

Then came the alguazil, the light 

Of hell was in his scowling eye. 

Dashing the trembling host aside 

Like war-ship rushing in its pride. 

The lover there that moment stood. 

Not like a w^arrior trained in blood, 

But like that Spirit who on high 

His four-edged sword flashed o'er the sky. 

And bade the sinning mortal die. 

" Yield thee, blasphemer ! Heaven commands." 

" Chain, then, the bold blasphemer's hands, 



THE SISTERS OP SAINT CLAHA. 

" And bind his madden'd spirit down 

" Low as thy master's and thine own." 

" Darest thou the monarch's alguazil ?" 

" Bid ye the whelp-robbed lion kneel !" 

" Dark ruffian ! thou wilt rue this hour." 

" Ruffian ! — not while my sword hath power. 

And with the word the unfailing blade 

Low at his feet the opposer laid, 

And Dion seized the escalade. 

He springs with more than mortal might, 

He rises — almost gains the height — 

His hand is on the moss-grown wall — 

This moment saves or ruins all ! 

A word, a thought, a look, a dream 

May ratify the doom of years ; 

One glance, one quick electric gleam 

Maj- lead unto an age of fears ! 

Oh ! Dion, nerve thy heart again, 

One minute — spring — and thou art free, 

O think — thy love — 'tis vain — 'tis vain, 

Despair hath sealed thy destiny ! 

They tear away the cord- wove frame, 

And thou art doomed to woe and shame ! 

Still Dioa bears the double weight 

With one torn, bleeding, numbing hand 

Awhile — he falls — the scroll of Fate 

Hath rolled its darkest record ! " Stand, 

" Exulting demons, stand ye there, 

" And o'er all earth your triumph yell, 

" And laugh o'er death and life's despair, 

" For than ye w^orse reign not in hell !" 



79 



80 THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 

xr. 
'Tis joy to gaze, from the tall ship s lee, 
On the curling waves of the moonlight sea, 
When the mellow airs of spring-time night 
Come over the heart as it floats in light. 
And the sleeping flowers exhale perfume. 
Like a virgin's breath from lips of bloom. 
And the dark-blue waters curl and gleam 
In the diamond star-light's mirrored beam, 
While the spirit burns o'er the glittering sea 
'Till it longs a moonlight wave to be. 
Oh, spirits that sail on the moonlight sea 
Should have thoughts as vast as eternity, 
And feelings as pure as the sleeping rose, 
When its leaves in the dew of the sunset close. 

XII. 

O'er Lusitania's soft -blue moonlight bay 
Swells the gay song of reckless gondolier. 
While his bark dances, as the waters play, 
On the shore waves that glitter bright and clear. 

Dim in the distance, marked upon the sky. 
Wave the blue pennon and the glimmering sail, 
And oft is heard the master's anxious cry 
While shoreward sea-boy answers to his hail 

Yet, save his song and their expectant cries, 
The world is slumbering in a soft repose, 
And spirits from their star-thrones in the skies 
Breathe softly as a dew-lipped sleeping rose. 

It is the hour when love's communion fills 
Eye, lip and heart with rapture's magic light ; 
When waning Dian, throned on shadowy hills. 
Smiles o'er young transports from her azure hr'gut 



THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 81 

Pomegranate, orange, lime and citron groves 
Shadow gray turrets and time-honoured towers, 
And heaven's pale queen amid their arbours roves, 
And counts with tears the melancholy hours. 

But hushed is song of happy gondolier, 
And fast the shadowy sail ascends on high ; — 
A step, a form, a voice — " Prince Julian's here !" 
" Alfonso, haste ! this hour we 'scape or die !" 

XIII. 

Before the rising, shrill- voiced gale 

Flies the yard-stretching, mighty sail, 

Swelling o'er broad Atlantic billow, 

Like swan upon her wavy pillow, 

Dashing aside from her high prow 

The wave, whose hissing foam-wreaths glow 

Like jewels thrown in floating snow, 

And hurrying on her watery way. 

Between two oceans, heaven and earth's, 

Like war-horse through the battle fray. 

Whose mighty heart would burst his girths 

In its high swelling, should his lord 

Or check his speed or sheathe his sword. 

With a long sigh, as if from dream 

Of pain and anguish slowly waking, 

From Julian's breast, with sudden scream 

Wild as her bleeding heart were breaking, 

Zulma rose and gazed around 

On ocean's sons, on wave and sky. 

And then fell back and deeply groaned, 

While gleamed through tears her eagle eye. 

" Inez ! sweet Inez !" Shudderings came 

Over her like the sansar's breath, 



82 THE SISTERS OF SAIIN'T CLABA. 

As from her heart flowed that sweet name 

Which now was linked with woe and death, 

And, wrapt in silent suffering, 

She sa\v nor wave nor sky nor lover, 

Nor heard the light-winged breezes sing, 

Like nymphs in sea-shells, ocean over ; 

All — all to her was pain and gloom, 

Her thoughts of what she left behind. 

And o'er her angel sister's tomb 

She heard the lonely wailing wind, 

With spirit voice of wild distress. 

Denouncing Inez' murderess ! 

Darkly with phantoms of her brain 

Communing, o'er the billowy main 

Zulma was hurried rapidly. 

And the low murmuring of the sea 

Seemed, when she heard the gulfing surge. 

Hymning the murdered vestal's dirge. 

XIV. 

The virgin huntress of the skies 

With Ocean's daughters flies afar, 

And Eos and her nymphs arise 

Above the sun-god's throne, each star, 

Orion's blazing sword of light. 

And the twin-martyrs' glory bright. 

And sea-born Beauty's radiance dimming, 

While blue-zoned Tethys weaves a crown 

Of pearls and corals brightly swimming 

Through her vast empire fathoms down. 

To deck Aurora's rosy brow 

As her white steeds o'er ether fly, 

And proud Hyperion, bright and slow, 

Rolls unto heaven his glorious eye. 



THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 83 

The bird of Jove his mighty wings 
Waves o'er the crimson vault above, 
And from his eye a radiance flings 
Bright as the brightest glance of love 
The white-plumed sea-gull skims the sea, 
The curlew sports around the bark, 
And nature sings of liberty 
And love as when from ancient ark 
The beasts of earth and birds of heaven 
To their bright lields and skies were given. 

XV, 

The rushing ship is sailing now 

O'er the bright wave of Trafalgar, 

And morn is blushing o'er the brow 

Of Algarve's dusky mountains far, 

With the same smile of living bloom 

As when to ocean's billowy tomb, 

Amid the sea-fray's carnage red, 

Their requiem shouts of victory, 

Shrouded in glory, England's Dead 

Sunk with unclosed, war-lightened eye. 

Whose last, bright glance from gory wave 

Saw England's banner proudly streaming 

Victorious o'er their ocean grave. 

And England's sword triumphal gleaming ; 

And o'er his sons, with every surge, 

Bright, billowy ocean sings their dirge. 

And now the swelling sail is fanned 

By zephyrs o'er that narrow sea, 

O'er which on either margin stand 

Those giant mountain twins which he, 

Alcmena's son, with god-like power. 

Severed and poured the sea between. 



84 THE SISTKRS OF SAINT CLAKA. 

And which, since that i-ock-sundering hour, 

The deadliest foes have ever been. 

Thence onw^ard holds the bark her w^ay 

Through the blue wave in fair array, 

While to the northern view arise 

The Appenines 'neath bending skies. 

O'er whose snow-mantled summits erst 

The Mauritanian hero led 

His warlike host, by fate accursed. 

To glory, as the warrior said. 

And the proud spoils of mighty Rome ; 

In that soul-stirring hour of pride. 

When his heart rolled in glory's tide. 

Having dread Cannee in his view 

No more than he whom Waterloo 

Doom'd to the Rock-Isle's living tomb. 

Had of that desolating fray 

On Lodi's or Marengo's day. 

Before the view, where sun-beams smile. 

Rises that rocky mountain isle. 

Where he was born, the mighty one, 

Whose gory course of fame is run ; 

And where, perchance, a guiltless boy. 

His fellows' chief, his mother's joy, 

He wandered oft, and played, and smiled 

Amid the mountain's shrubbery wild, 

An innocent and happy child ; 

Undreaming of his pomp and power, 

His crimes, disgrace and exile fate. 

Ah ! few can tell in childhood's hour 

What thoughts and deeds their manhood wait ; 

Or who will bann or bless the name 

That blazes on the scroll of Fame. 



THE SKTliRS OF SAlN'f CLARA, 85 

In him a mighty spirit burned, 
But with a fierce volcano glare ; 
Oh, had that soaring spirit turned 
To heaven and drank in glory there, 
Earth would have bo"wed in rapture's mood 
And held his name in sanctitude. 
The Man, who guides a nation's way 
To bloodless glory, o'er his name 
Throws fairer wreaths of light than they 
Who deck Earth's highest shrine of Fame. 
But ah ! he fell, and with him died 
His empire, power, and pomp, and pride ; 
And nought remains of all he won — 
Quenched is Napoleon's zenith sun. 

Still onward fleet the ship careers, 
Like rapid lapse of hurrying years, 
While fades the bright foam of its wake, 
Like all the joys we give or take. 
And bears, with sail expanding high. 
Its course, beneath a glorious sky, 
Toward soft Campania's fairy land. 
Where zephyrs sport with breathings bland 
O'er ruins erst of pride and fame. 
And gorgeous domes of deathless shame. 
And, 'mid the night that robes the skies, 
Julian directs sad Zulma's view 
Where ^Etna's fiery columns rise 
In desolation's lurid hue. 
Glaring between this world and heaven, 
Like fiends to whom destruction's given. 
The baleful light is flaring o'er 
Trinacria's vine-clad, flowery shore, 

8 



86 THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLABA. 

Where Arethusa once gush'd forth 
In lucid streams for bards to drink, 
And Alpheus 'neath the sea and earth 
Met his fair fountain bride — the brink 
Bloomed like a garden of sweet flowers, 
And, near, Ortygia's sacred grove 
Delayed the rosy-footed hours 
Of pure delight and raptured Love. 
A weedy marsh now stagnates there, 
And taints the thick and sluggish air. 
As all man's hopes close in despair. 
The lovers' course is almost done. 
The lovers' goal is nearly won, 
And how hath Zulma borne the flight ? 
Like one whose brighest day was night. 
Like one whose heart hath caught a taint 
Of crime, though fancied, dark and deep ; 
Whose dread remorse doth ever paint 
Horrors, and ne'er is lulled to sleep, 
Since o'er a spirit proud and high 
It reigns with three-fold energy. 
Who backward looks and finds despair. 
And forward, misery bars her there ; 
Who hath no hope on earth and none 
Beneath high heaven's offended throne. 
The more she thinks, the darker grows 
The volume of her sins and woes ; 
No change comes o'er her agony ; 
Like ^Etna's fire, it burns within. 
And, dark'ning o'er the spirit's sky. 
Burns ever with the gathering sin. 
It was not madness ; o'er her brain 
Coherent thoughts ceased not to flow ; 



THE SISTERS OF SAI^'T CLARA. S7 

But 'twas that dread, oppressive pain, 

That mountain weight of crushing woe, 

Which follows, in a sinless mind, 

A deed that spirits too refined 

Brood into guilt — for priestcraft e'er 

Riots in human woe and fear. 

Reason was worse than vain, and speech 

The dreadful mania could not reach, 

That o'er her burning spirit shed 

The baneful death-dew of despair, 

The upas of a bosom dead 

To all of beautiful and fair ; 

For Zulma sought no sympathy. 

No comfort faithless as 'tis free, 

But leaned upon the penal rod 

And bowed her burning heart to God. 

XVI. 

The barque has passed the Tyrrhine sea 

And anchored in the glorious bay 

Of proud and base Parthenope,* 

Where perfumed gales with sunlight play 

O'er antique temple, giant tower, 

And palace proud, virhose mirrored dome, 

Like a bright heaven, o'er many a tomb 

Of many a mighty one laid low 

Gleams with a rich, refulgent glow, 

Like Freedom o'er lost Power. 

The barque is moored — the lovers gone 

Beyond the once fair Lucrine lake, 

Where dark-browed Ruin reigns alone 

O'er Baiae lost in marshy brake, 

* Neapolis, or Naples. 



8d THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 

And all the fairy gardens, groves, 
Meadows and dales erst loved so well 
By him* (so reckless luxury proves 
In one a nation's ruin fell) 
Who shunning Glory's shrine when he 
Had gained the fane, left mighty Rome 
The victim of fierce anarchy, 
Dreading yet hurrjing on her doom. 
Lucrine — the haunt of mirth is gone, 
And there volcanoes glare alone ! 
Baiae hath sunk to dust, and she, 
Earth's mistress stands, like ancestry, 
Scowling o'er sons whose highest boast 
Had been their fathers' deepest shame, 
To pride, to truth, to glory lost, 
To honest hearts and patriot fame. 

xvn. 
Days, weeks and months have been and gone. 
And lovely Zulma dwells alone 
In solitary castle high 
Between fair earth and fairer sky. 
Julian had been, all lovers are, 
Had knelt and sworn his deathless love, 
And, like a sky-throned, radiant star, 
Thrown light and beauty from above ; 
He had been all that being is, 
Whom kindoms wait — I dare not dwell 
On man's intent to offer bliss 
To one who had for him farewell 
Bidden all thoughts of earth and heaven, 
And sole to him her full heart given. 

* LucuHus 



THE SISTEKi OF SAINT CLARA. 89 

Prince Julian was Campania's heir, 

And thus decreed his royal sire ; — 

" Thou wed'st proud Austria's daughter fair, 

" Or never com'st the sceptre nigher." 

Julian was proud of pomp and fame — 

The fair nun could nor trump his name 

Nor plume his power — ^but she might be 

The unseen queen of sovereignty, 

The empress of his private hours — 

The angel of his palace bowers. 

So Julian thought, though he had tried 

Her honest fame by speech oblique 

And look lascivious, when his pride 

And birth and state appeared most weak 

Before wronged Zulma's Juno eye, 

Whose glance spake pride and purity. 

From day to day he talked of love, 

While Zulma would not see his aim, 

Save when the princely sophist strove 

To prove all rites a needless name ; 

Then flashed her eye and glowed her brow, 

Like sunbeams o'er the mountain snow. 

On love I will not moralize ; 

It hath more wiles and snares than sighs ; 

Sooth be the tale and fair I tell — 

His deeds are man's true chronicle. 

xvni. 
'Twas soft Campania's evening hour, 
And earth and heaven were seas of light, 
And Zulma in her rose-wove bower 
Sate gazing on the horizon bright, 
Where white clouds float and turn to gold 
In many a bright and glorious fold, 

8* 



90 THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 

And fancy pictures angel pinions 
Far waving o'er those high dominions, 
'Till, as she thought of pleasures gone, 
And Inez, tortured, dying, dead. 
And her own misery there alone. 
Her hopes destroyed, her true loves fled, 
Her bleeding heart left desolate. 
And all the ills and woes of fate. 
She seized her harp and mournfully 
Sung of those joys no more to be. 

THE BANKS OF ZEVERE. 

The bright sun is sinking o'er Italy's sea, 

And kissing Campania's fair gardens of flowers, 

But, oh, his smile brings no pleasure to me, 

For my heart ever grieveth o'er childhood's sweet 

hours : 
Sweetly gay rise the notes of the lover's guitar. 
As he greets his heart's bride in the valley cot near, 
But, ah, all my songs of delight are afar. 
Like a spirit's voice heard on the banks of Zevere. 

How oft have I sat with sweet Inez upon 

Those rose-cushioned banks in our being's gay hours, 

And fancied delights ever new to be won 

In the great World of beauty and music and flowers ! 

How oft, O thou dear one ! I slumbered with thee 

In our moon-lighted bower in the spring of the year, 

And heard the birds singing on our apricot-tree 

When we woke to delight on the banks of Zevere ! 

How often when nature in vain bloomed around 
I turned in my heart-stricken sorrow to thee. 
And in vigil and penance and weariness found 
Thy sweet love a solace and treasure to me ! 



THE SISTEUS OF SAINT CLARA. 91 

But, alas ! thou art dead, and I am alone, 
Far from all that on earth or in heaven were dear ; 
Fare thee well, lovely Inez ! dark shadows are thrown 
O'er our bower on the banks of the lonely Zevere. 

Julian had stood beside the bower, 
And heard, unseen, the mournful song, 
While e^ery blushing*, dewy flower 
Reproached him with fair Zulma's wrong ; 
But nature's voice, so soft, so still. 
Fails to o'errule ambition's pride. 
Or with atoning sorrow fill 
A lordly heart unsanctified. 
Julian drew near and greeted fair 
The sad, forsaken, lovely maid, 
And, eloquent in praise and prayer, 
Rehearsing all he oft had said, 
Implored compliance with his love, 
Acceptance of his treasures — all — 
And she should ever — ever prove 
The queen of banquet, bower and hall. 
And be his heart's eternal bride. 
His life his sun, his hope, his heaven, 
And, when he gained his throne of pride, 
His royal name should soon be given. 
But, while the Prince besought and prayed, 
How sat and looked the insulted maid ? 
Like her of Enna's rosy vale 
When wooed by him of Acheron ; 
Her marble brow, her cheek so pale, 
Her tearful eye — all brightly shone 
With pride and shame, disdain and scorn. 
And thus — " Why was I ever born 



92 THE SISTKIIS OF SAINT CLARA. 

" So to be scoffed at ?" quick began 

The nun, while fierce her hot blood ran, 

And her small form, dilating, grew 

Like towering angel on the view. 

" Prince Julian, cease ! I charge thee, cease ! 

" Are these thy notes of love and peace ? 

" Art thou to be a nation's king 1 

" Thou — false, deluding, faithless thing ! 

'* The thoughts that lightened spirits high 

" In the old days of chivalry, 

•' Throw not a wandering gleam o'er thee, 

" Thou craven night of loselry ! 

" Vemeira is a noble name, 

" And it can never be that fame 

" Should Zulma's memory link with shame. 

" Shall I thy leman be ? O no ! 

" Never while I can wield a blow, 

" While poison drops or waters flow. 

" Rede thou a woman's spirit well 

" Ere mock her thus with words from hell, 

" And know that virtue is her heaven, 

" To things like thee, oh, never given ! 



" O Julian, Julian ! love like mine 

" Is quenchless, deathless, for 'tis pure ; 

" E'en now it doth around thee twine 

" Fondly, and cannot but endure 

" The same as when thine eye first shone 

" O'er the same mirror as my own. 

" Hadst thou been what I thought thee erst 

" As knightly as thou wert at first, 

" Though doomed to groan in poverty, 

•' 'Mid malice, misery, wrong and ill, 



THE SISTERS OF SAINT OtARA. 93 

" The slave of fear — a lord to me — 

" I would have loved — obeyed thee still, 

" And, with unsorrowing brow and eye, 

" Forsaken not and unforsaking, 

" When sleeping, kissed thy misery 

" Away, and sung to thee when waking. 

" But these are dreams of passion yet 

" Surviving when its hope hath set ; 

" Vain mockeries of my bosom's sun, 

" Quenched ere his journey hath begun ! 

" I leave thee, Julian ! and be thou 

" Thy own just judge — no worse ! and now — 

" There are thy gifts !" — From neck of snow 

Her carcanet — and then her zone 

Of jewels and her chains and rings 

She loosed and threw, disdainful, down ; 

" There, Julian, take the gilded things, 

" For which thou thought'st that I would sell 

" My honour — and now fare thee well !" 



Bewildered, lost in guilt and shame. 
And torrent passions wildly warring ; 
Defied, despised in deed and name, 
Each wild-fire thought another marring ; 
Prince Julian stood unmoving where, 
In all the grandeur of despair, 
Zulma, like empress throned in power 
More than deserted nun, had left 
Her lover in that sundering hjur 
When her proud heart of hope was reft. 
Zulma had hurried from his view — 
Her form of love, her voice, her smile, 



94 THE SISTERS OF SAIXT CLARA. 

No more enchantment o'er him threw — 
No more his sorrows could beguile ; 
She had been his — and now \vas not — - 
He had been hers in grief and woe — 
Now she had gone — to be forgot — 
And he was left alone to — " No ! 
" By Heaven ! it cannot, shall not be ; 
" Crown, sceptre, kingdom — what are ye 
" To love and love's true paradise ? 
" The earth preferred unto the skies ! 
" Ambrose !" " My lord !"— " Caparison 
" The fleetest steed in all my stalls, 
" And bring the courser here anon — 
" And guard thou well the castle walls 
" I %vill the maid regain or die, 
" For Honour is man's majesty !" 
He vaulted on his gallant steed, 
And vanished in the forest dun, 
Then rose the hill, and o'er the mead 
Rushed 'neath the last beam of the sun. 



THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 96 



THE 



SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 

CANT O II. 

I. 
O LAND of my birth ! thou fair world of the "West ! 
With freedom and glory and happiness blest I 
Thou nation upspringing from forest and grove, 
Like wisdom's armed queen from the brain of high 

Jove ! 
Though thy w^inds are the coldest the North ever 

blows, 
And thy mountains the drearest when covered with 

snows ; 
Tho' the warm fount of feeling is chilled while it 

gushes, 
And pleasure's stream frozen as brightly it rushes ; 
Tho' thy sons, like their clime, are oft chilling and rude 
And rough as the oak in their own mountain wood ; 
Yet I love thee, my country ' as fondly as Tell 
Loved the Alpine Republic he rescued so well. 
For thy yeomen can circle the winter-eve hearth, 
Undreading oppression, and talk of the Earth, 
Whose bosom yields nurture to father and son 
Leaving hearts pure and gay when the glad work is 

done : 
While the paeans they shout over glories by-gone 
Are echoed bv virtues for ever their own. 



96 THE SISTERS OP SAINT CLARA. 

O thou home of the rover o'er ocean's rude wave, 
Asylum of sorrow and fort of the brave ! 
Advance in thy glory o'er foi'est and sea, 
Unrivalled, unconquered, heroic and free ! 
Though the rose bloom and fade in its holiday hour, 
And the sun-god is palled in his glory of power 
Tho' winter's cold breath blanch the blossoming rosfc 
Unlike the bright clime where the sky ever glow^s, 
Yet thy virtues bend not to each soothing breeze, 
"Whose syren song lures through the soft shading trees 
Like the gay, grovelling sons of the tropical clime. 
Whose skies are all glory — whose earth is all crime. 
None love thee so well as thy sons far away. 
None bless thee more oft than the bard of this lay 

ir. 
The sunniest rose that ever blowed 
111 velvet vale of soft Cashmere ; 
The loveliest light that ever glowed 
O'er heaven in spring-time of the year, 
Ne'er blushed and beamed more purely bright 
Than gentle Inez' sinless heart 
Upon that dread unholy night 
When doomed with all it loved to part. 
No spirit, gazing from above. 
With eyes impearled in pity's tears. 
Cherished more heavenly thoughts of love 
In glory's highest, brightest spheres, 
Than that pure child of love and light. 
Dragged, 'neath the covert of the night, 
To the dim arch'd refectory ; 
Where, telling fast their rosaries. 
And lifting many a saint-like eye 
To heaven with muttered groans and sighs. 



THE BISTERS '. F SAINT CLAKA. VI 

The demon conclave met to doom 

To living grave, to breathing tomb, 

The apostate, suffering, dying nun. 

The word hath passed — the deed is done ! 

Ere morn gleams through the pictured glass 

Of prison cell, or o'er the wall 

Of dark St. Clara light doth pass. 

Dimly and thick and sickening, all 

Of that dark bigot band, save one. 

Are kneeling at the tapered shrine, 

Before the Omniscient's holy throne. 

Where every thought should be divine, 

To chant their impious prayers to Him, 

In whose creation-searching eye 

Not even the heavenliest seraphim 

A.re pure in their great piety ! 

Alas ! that Heaven's most blessed boon, 

Religion, breathing peace and love. 

In man's polluted heart so soon 

The veriest creed of hell should prove ! 

HI. 

Unseen, unfelt, unknown, her fate 
O'er the fair vestal's head had past, 
And she was left all desolate — 
The doom was sealed — the die was cast — 
Ere, waking from her dreadful dream, 
She faintly said — " I heard a scream 
" Of death, methought, O Dion ! say 
" Is Zulma safe ?" Then, as she lay 
Leaning aj^ainst the dungeon wall, 
She turned — groaned — and fell back again ; 
" Oh, Dion ! love ! oh. tell me all, 

9 



9S THE SISTEKa OF SAINT CLAEA* 

" Where — where is ZuhTia ?" — Awful pain 

Came o'er her then and dimmed the eye 

Of yesternight's dread memory, 

And through her spirit's drear opaque 

She could not look — she could not take 

Perception of her agony ; 

She knew 'twas so — but how or why 

It baffled her delirious brain 

To tell ; — and then she thought again. 

And more distinct her memory grew 

Of what had passed — and chill the dew 

Of death hung on her writhen brow, 

Where love still shed its parting glow, 

As dim she caught the past and gone ; 

Yet she could not — the dying one, 

Think why she thus was left alone. 

She spake again, but faint and low — 

" O Dion ! thou hast often said 

*' Thy love could master every woe, 

" And o'er all griefs its radiance shed ; 

" It cannot be that thou should'st now 

" Forsake thy love, forget thy vow — 

" Now, when I feel — O Dion, come 

" And bear me hence — I must go home P* 

She listened then for some faint sound. 

And strove to rise and look around ; 

But all w^as midnight gloom, and she 

Alone there in her agony. 

Still memory gathered link by link — 

And still life's current quickly bled — 

With a death-thirst she longed to drink 

What flowed around her dungeon bed; 

She scooped the fluid in her hand. 



THE SISTERS OI" SAINT CLARA. 99 

And bore it to her lips — -'t was blood ! 

And then her spirit lost command 

'Mid horror, gloom, and solitude, 

While thought, no words of man can tell. 

O'er all the past began to swell. 

And well she saw her hopeless doom, 

There buried in eternal gloom. 

Whence shrillest shriek and wildest cry 

Could never reach the shuddering sky. 

No missal there nor cross had she. 

O'er which to breathe her parting breath ; 

To cheer her in her misery. 

And change to bliss the pangs of death ; 

For they had banned the dying nun 

And barred redeeming penitence ! 

Demons ! their hate her glory won — 

Her amulet was innocence ! 

So malice works its own reward, 

And weakest proves when most on guard. 

For never yet hath hatred wrought 

The deadly ruin which it sought, 

Untended by a deadlier blow 

Than that which laid its victim low. 



A sound disturbed her solitude — 
High chanting from the chapelry : 
Like wailings from a gloomy wood 
When echoed by a stormy sk)^ 
The distant swell of cloister strain 
And matin hymn came o'er her brain, 
And roused to life her slumbering pain ; 
It was her dirge — that morning song, 
And slowly rolled the notes along 



1^0 THE SISTEKS OF SAINT CLARA. 

The cypress groves — the vaults — the cells — 

Like murder's midnight groan which tells 

The fearful deed most fearfully ; 

And there the lovely Inez lay 

In suffering's last extremity, 

While not a solitary ray 

Of light relieved the heart-felt gloom 

That palled her spirit in the tomb. 

It was a mockery of her woe — 

The mass of hell yelled out below — 

That paean, like a death-doom sent 

Through farthest vault — through deepest cell. 

To agonize the punishment 

Of the fair one Heaven loved so well. 

But oh, no fiend with things can cope 

Whom God hath left to their own will — 

Giv'n o'er beyond all reach of hope. 

At hate's hell-cup to drink their fill ; 

The deadliest demon, banned the most. 

May fill the archangel's holiest throne 

Ere mortal once — forever lost, 

Can for his damning deeds atone. 

The light of heaven may beam o'er hell 

Dimly and touch the apostate there ; 

But man, abandoned, bids farewell 

To hope, and weds his own despair. 



Another sound the stillness broke, 

And Inez' bleeding heart awoke. 

It was the wailing of a dove, 

The death-song of a simple bird 

O'er her who died for heaven and love. 

And gladly were ihe soft notes heard. 



The skaters oi' saiat clara. 101 

Perched on a cypress o'er her cell, 

The bird hailed not the glorious sun, 

But sadly sung the last farewell 

Of the pure, SM^eet, expiring nun, 

To earth and earthly sins and woes 

And life so early in its close. 

As Inez listened to the strain. 

And longed to waft it back again, 

The shade of death was in her eye, 

The pulses of her being beat 

Faintly, and death's last agony 

Came o'er her like a shadowy bloom, 

A soft voice stealing from the tomb, 

A light to guide the parting spirit 

Beyond the woes that all inherit. 

Feebly she sunk — the crimson tide 

Gushed forth no more — her heart was still ; 

Yet her lips trembled as she died — 

" Dion — forgive — my wrongs !" and 'till 

Her features sunk collapsed in death 

That name was breathed with every breath. 

VI. 

A taper gleams amid the gloom — 
A white-robed form approaches near — 
It pauses by the dungeon tomb, 
And listens tensely as in fear, 
Or hope — and now it moves again 
And lifts the iron-bolted grate. 
And gazes o'er the cell of pain, 
Doubting its lovely tenant's fate. 
Demon ! go in — thy victim's gone ! 
Unseen, unheard, like guilt alone, 

9* 



102 rtii: sisTKRi ok sai.^t clara 

Clotilde doth listen there awhile, 

And then descends — and with a smile 

Deadly and dark moves round the corse, 

Whose features are an angel's still. 

" Dead ? — Ay, 'tis well — it had been worse 

" Had justice half fulfilled my will 

" Or hadst thou lived till now !" — She turned 

The lovely vestal's body o'er, 

And laughed aloud ; and then she spurned 

The corse upon its gory floor, 

And smiled as if she gave it pain ; 

And then she raised the beauteous nun — 

" Ay, 'tis a blessed fate, sweet one ' 

" That thou hast wrought thyself — again 

" Thou would'st not do the deed !" She threw 

The pale, cold corse in scorn away. 

And yet more dark her features grew, 

As death had robbed her of her prey ; 

And still she stood, with fiend-like eye, 

Revelling in hatred's demon feast. 

And with low curse and muttered cry 

Banning e'en Him who had released 

The vestal from her deadl)^ power 

And raised the soul to Eden's bower. 

When a loud crash rose high — and far 

The echo as of bolt and bar 

Shooting, went forth ! — Where art thou now, 

Proud abbess ? Ah ! thou soon wilt know ! 

The iron portal to the cell, 

The lifted grate had fallen — how 

It nought avails for me to tell ; 

Perchance, the wind had laid it low, 

Or death-winged angel might have thrown 

The dreadful bars in anger down, 



THE SISTERS OV SAINT CLARA. 103 

Eternal justice to dispense 

To suffering, murdered innocence. 

Howe'er it was — proud Clotilde there 

Was doomed to perish with the dead, 

In silence, darkness and despair, 

And meet the fate her sentence said. 

There could be no relief — no, none — 

She had gone forth, unseen, alone, 

And from that subterranean cell 

No cry arose to human ear ; 

It was a dark monastic hell, 

Beyond hope's sun-illumined sphere. 

She shook the bars — but they were fast — 

She shrieked — but echo mocked her pain ; 

She gazed around — but shadows past 

Like fiends, and she sunk down again. 

And then remorse was leagued with fear, 

And both like vipers gnawed her heart ; 

And horrid sounds were in her ear 

That cried — " What dost thou here ? depart ! 

" Seek thou the hell of thy dark creed, 

" Thine be the doom thou hast assigned, 

" The unpitying bigot's bitter meed, 

" The quenchless ruins of the mind ! 

" Depart ! depart !" how awful e'er 

Is guilt when phrenzied by its fear ! 

VII. 

Unshrived, she there must die in all 

Her unforgiven guilt and woe ; ' 

On either side a dungeon wall. 

And wrath above and death below^, 

Unsoothed, unpitied and alone, 

Without a single orison, 



10€ THE SrSTEKS OF SAINT CLARA 

Without a tear to mourn her fate, 

Or look of grief compassionate, 

Or holy right or orris pall 

Or requiem chanted forth by all 

The holy vestal sisterhood, 

Who round her erst admiring stood 

As if St. Marie had been given 

To them in other form from heaven. 

But such be guilt's dark fate for eV" ? 

She there must perish dust to dust, 

Unshriven in the dungeon drear, 

Accursed below — among the just 

All entrance barred eternally ! 

Now guilt forestalled redemption's hours* 

And madness sprung from agony ! 

Darkly the storm of misery lowers, 

And darker yet it soon shall be ; 

For Sin uprears her giant form 

And mad Remorse, her spectre, stands. 

Gashed by the fangs of guilt's dark worm. 

Lifting on high his gory hands 

To warn too late — to tell at last 

The victim that her day hath past, 

And yet more awful thoughts arise 

More fearful shadows blast her view, 

And wilder are her echoed cries. 

And colder is the dungeon-dew. 

VIII. 

Time flies — strength fails — but madness grows 
Stronger and darker in its mood. 
And fevered Fear delirious throws. 
O'er all the gloom a robe of blood ; 



THE SISTERS OP SAINT CLARA. 105 

And now she sinks beside the nun, 

There like a song-lulled angel sleeping. 

And smiling as her woes were done, 

And she in heaven were vigils keeping. 

She starts as if an adder stung ! 

A demon voice of mirth had rung 

Through all the chambers of her brain ; 

She listens — now it comes again, 

Blended with laughter wild and rude, 

And echoes through the fatal cell, 

And cries aloud — " Thy soul's imbued 

" With blood of innocence ; — 'tis well 

" That on thy victim's lifeless breast 

" Thou should'st sink in eternal rest !" 

Her maniac heart could bear no more, 

The last extremity had come ; 

She grovelled on the cold earth floor 

In speechless anguish at her doom ; 

Gazed with a madden'd eye, that told 

What horrors o'er her bosom rolled, 

Upon the nun who slept as still 

As infant that has drank its fill ; 

Then with a shriek that might appal 

The fiend, against the dungeon w^all 

Dashed headlong — groaned and died ! — 'Tis past, 

The more than mortal suffering. 

Alas ! I would it were the last ! 

But earthly minstrel dare not sing 

Of fates beyond the farthest ken 

Of starry-eyed philosophy ; 

Among the abodes of mortal men 

He finds enough of misery 



100 THE SISTiIRS OF SAINT ClAHA, 

To break the heart and rack the brain 
That feels or thinks of human pain. 
Her fate hath past — her soul hath fled — 
And peace attend the voiceless Dead ! 

IX. 

Life scarce had parted and her fate 

Passed o'er the haughty abbess there. 

Ere steps approached the iron grate. 

And voices, as in last despair, 

Echoed above the fatal cell. — 

The portal's raised and they descend. 

The sisterhood. — Now note ye well, 

Fair vestals ! ere ye ween to wend 

In sin's broad path, sin's woful end ! 

The highest bliss of heaven may prove 

The bitterest dreg in misery's cup. 

And spirits born of heaven and love 

By guilt be lost and given up 

To state abhorring and abhorred — 

And not adoring and adored ! 

Long was the anxious search and quest 

Ere they could trace their abbess there. 

And anguish searched full many a breast 

As they stood gazing in despair 

On murdered and on murderess. 

I pause not now to paint the scene — 

The natural ills of life suffice 

To fill with tears the sternest eyes, 

When thought retraces what hath been. 

To gloom the heart and cloud the way 

That shone so brightly yesterday 



THE SISTERS OF SAINT ClAKA. 107 

Together from the dungeon cell 

The corses were in silence borne, 

While lingering tolled the funeral knell, 

And sullen echoes moaned forlorn ; 

And shrouded in their vestments white, 

They laid them side by side, and kept 

Their vigils through the livelong night. 

While breathlessly the dead ones slept, 

As softly as two infants, born 

Perchance, to be each other's scorn ! 

The wakeful sisters watched alone, 

And many a holy rite was done 

To foil the fiend and save the soul 

Of her who once held high control 

O'er penance stern and vow austere, 

For many a long and sinful year. 

The lovely innocent that there 

Too holy was for grief or prayer. 

Lay like a picture of the blest, — 

'Twas her last hour and loveliest ! 

They watched — they prayed — night waned and morn, 

Like holy hope in Eden born, 

Blushed the stained glass and casement through, 

And gave the gloomy scene to view. 

X. 

To die — to feel the spirit fainting 

In the mansions of the breast. 

While yet the vivid eye is painting 

Life and vigor unpossessed ; 

To see the mortal frame decaying. 

The temple's pillars breaking down. 

And know the soul will soon be straying 



108 THE SISTERS UK S.VINT CLARA, 

Over climes and realms unknown ; 
While warm affection hovers o'er 
The couch of death, with wailing prayer 
Imploring lengthened life once more 
In all the anguish of despair ; 
And we behold and feel and know 
All that is felt for us and yet 
Beside perceive the overthrow 
Of hopes on which the heart is set, 
And picture in our dying hour 
Anguish unknown till we are dead, 
And conscious, hopeless misery's power, 
And tears from being's fountains^ shed — 
Oh, 'tis a time, an hour of gloom 
Worse than the midnight of the tomb ! 
But, ah, 'tis worse to think that we, 
The proud, high, sentient lords of earth 
Must moulder into dust and be 
Or clay or nothing ! At our birth 
It was decreed that we should die. 
But not that we should rotting lie 
With every foul and loathsome thing 
Blending our ashes. — Fling, oh, fling 
My corse in ocean's booming w^ave. 
Or burn it on the funeral pyre, 
But lay it not in reeking grave 
To glimmer with corruption's fire ! 
St. Clara's funeral bell is knelling 
With the solemn voice of death. 
And far the mournful notes are swelling 
While from postern far beneath 
Issue the white-robed virgin train. 
Chanting low the requiem strain, 



THE SISTERS OP SAINT CLAftA. 109 

Over the dark and dismal tomb 
Of one in being's roseate bloom, 
And one in sallow withered age, 
Departed from life's tragic stage. 
Where sorrow never wakes to weep, 
And ill and wrong distract no more, 
And homeless wanderers sweetly sleep. 
And hate and pride and pain are o'er. 
They lay the vestals finally. 
Above them waves a cypress tree, 
Intwined with briar and rosemary, 
And round them sleep the mighty dead. 
Who centuries since forever fled ; 
A silent nation gone — alas ! 
Where living thought can never pass. 
The cere:nonial pomp is past — 
The vestals vanish, one by one — 
The holy father is the last. 
And even he hath slowly gone. 
And stillness reigns o'er all the scene. 
That is so peaceful and serene ; 
A stillness greatly eloquent 
When pious spirits bow and feel 
Delicious melancholy, sent 
From heaven o'er all their being steal 
With purifying breathings mild ; 
And they become like little child 
Gentle and docile, purely good, 
In their communing solitude. 
And look from earth to heaven with eye 
Of sage reflecting piety, 
Comparing man's allotment here 
With glories of a brighter sphere. 

10 



110 THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLAKA. 

XI. 

Love ! the holiest name in heaven, 
The purest, sweetest thing below ! 
Why are thy joys to torture given ? 
Thy rapture's unto wailing woe ? 
Why should thy fondest votaries prove 
Faithful even unto death in vain ? 
Or why, despite thy vows, O Love ! 
Should all thy blisses close in pain ? 

No voice was heard — no form was seen 

Within the churchyard's lonely bound, 

And Dion, from his weedy screen, 

Rose mournfully and gazed around. 

Long had he watched each lone — lone houi 

For some faint note of joy or grief, 

'Till destiny's most dreaded power 

To him had almost been relief. 

But nought allayed his dread suspense 

'Till Inez and her murderess 

Were borne to that lone mansion whence 

No tenant ever found egress. 

Then flashed the whole revealment dire 

O'er Dion's burning heart and brain, 

And death became a wild desire, 

A refuge from his penal pain. 

With rolling eye, and brow of gloom, 

And pallid cheek and trembling tread, 

Dion approached the robbing tomb 

Where Inez slept among the dead. 

And bowed his throbbing head upoR 

The dark funereal tablet stone 

Despairingly^ while forth his tears 

Unbidden gushed. — " In youthful years 



THE SISTERS OF SAIKT CLAKA. IH 

" I little recked of fate like this ; 

" I thought the world was full of bliss 

" And man most blessed in life — Alas ! 

*' I am not now the thing I was ; 

" And nought remains for me to dare 

" But misery, madness and despair ; 

" The darkness of a breast that bleeds 

" O'er the wild thought of damning deeds, 

" The doom that never will depart 

" From the dim mansions of the heart." 

He drew his poniard, looked on high 

For the last time with gleaming eye, 

Then laid him down the grave beside 

And clove his heart ! The purple tide 

Gushed like a torrent and — he died ! 

The last glance of his spirit turning 

To her for whom his heart was burning. 

XII. 

The autumnal sun's rich evening beams 

Blush o'er Cantabria's billowy sea, 

And Lusian fields and groves and streams. 

Like angel smiles, celestially ; 

And clustering vines hang purpling o'er 

The shrubbery-mantled palisade, 

And golden orange, cypress hoar, 

And cork-tree rough, and yew, whose shade 

The dead alone doth canopy, 

And sunken glen and dim defile, 

Alike in nature's bounties free. 

Return the soul-inspiring smile 

Of Autumn — queen-muse of the heart ! 

And as soft evening's hues depart, 



112 THE eiSfERS OP SAINT CLAKA 

Like holy hopes that smile in death, 
And twilight robes the fading sky 
With beauty felt, not seen — beneath 
The spreading palm, the lover's eye 
Burns as he tunes his soft guitar, 
And sees his own dear maid afar, 
Approaching her rose-woven bower 
To solemnize love's sacred hour. 
And lordly prince and shepherd hind, 
And lady proud and simple maid 
Enjoy alike the season kind. 
When flowers grow lovelier as they fade. 
Eve shadows dim the varied scene. 
And the calm sunlight wanes away, 
While one lone cloud of lustre sheen 
Still wears the rays of parting day. 
And hangs upon the zenith sky, 
Like hope the sad heart lingering by. 

XIII. 

Looming in shadowy twilight o'er 

Tajo's broad bay afar is seen, 

Scudding toward the Lusian shore, 

A quick, unladen brigantine ; 

And now it grows upon the eye, 

White sail, dark hulk, and swan-like prow ; 

And swells upon the evening sky 

Like castle turreted with snow ; 

And full the rushing w^ake is heard. 

Blent with command's shrill-uttered word. 

And many a heart throbs fondly now 

To meet its loves and find its home. 

As the light vessel crinckles slow 

The waters which no longer foam. 



THE SISTEKS OK SAINT CLARA. 113 

The brigantine is moored — the crew 
Are busy, boisterous, glad and gay. 
And jovial crowds are there ; — but who 
Through the dense throng makes rapid way 
With looks so proudly desolate ? 
'Tis ZuLMA, who hath borne her fate 
And yet will bear 'till being's close. 
All she hath lost and still can lose, 
With an unshrinking spirit none 
Can tame or crush ; — she is alone 
In desolation — but she bears 
Her lofty brow unblanched, and throws 
Around an eye undimned by tears, 
And, as she hurries on, she grows 
Stronger, as if her spirit stood 
Prepared for woe of all degree, 
And agony and solitude. 
And horror, and deep misery. 
With hurried step though tearless eye, 
She came, where still the massy towers 
Of her own convent rose before her 
And cast time's deepened shadows o'er her. 
From many a tongue too soon she heard 
The fatal story of the past, 
Told too with many a needless Avord, 
That fell like Lybia's desert blast. 
Zulma shrieked not, but fiercely rolled 
O'er brain and heart the worst — the last 
Wild storm of ruin ; hope fell dead. 
And her high spirit 'neath its own 
Intensity was crushed ; she said 
Nothing responsive — sigh nor groan, 
Nor scream nor cry was heard ; she threw 

10* 



114 THE SISTERS OF SAI>'T CLARA. 

Her bleeding eye to heaven and bowed 

A moment as in prayer — then grew 

Like desperation calm. — A crowd, 

As toward St. Clara's towers she went, 

Followed in mute astonishment 

That she should thus defy despair 

And her own certain ruin dare. 

Soon ceased their marvel — Zulma came 

Beneath the window of her cell, 

And upward gazed — and sighed the name. 

The memory of the victim nun. 

The loved, the lost, the lonely one. 

Who shed o'er life the only spell 

The true heart loves and prizes well. 

And as she gazed with mournful eye 

On dusky wall and cypress grove. 

The soul whose pride could never die, 

The spirit of immortal love 

That never sheds a human tear. 

Was journeying to a holier sphere. 



" Jesu Maria ! who art thou ? 
•• Christ and the Virgin shield us now !" 
A war-steed dashes through the throng— 
A horseman leaps upon the ground. 
And rushes like a maniac strong 
Toward dying Zulma, while around 
Gather the crowd to mark the scene — 
For one so mournful ne'er had been. 
Zulma looked up — a faint smile passed. 
Like silvery moon-beam on the wave, 
O'er lip and eye and then it cast 



THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA. 115 

Behind the death hue of the grave. 

Low bowed the horseman, Julian, there. 

And fearful was his agony ; 

He kneeled, like statue of despair, 

In hopeless, speechless misery ; 

But quivering lips and burning brow 

Were worse than vain and idle now. 

" Zulma " — he said at last, but wild 

Came then the memory of his shame, 

And Zulma's eye so proudly smiled 

He trembled but to speak her name. 

For she was calm as all must be 

Who triumph o'er the demon — man. 

And hold their pride and purity 

Above corruption's blight and bann. 

But life was ebbing fast away 

From Zulma's broKen heart and how, 

While yet was left a conscious ray 

Or never more his words must flow. 

He spake at last — his words were few 

But full of dark remorseful power, 

The out-pourings of the soul's mildew, 

That taints each lovely blooming flower. 

Making all life a waste ! — The fire 

Of being, that had sunk and waned 

In Zulma's bosom, burned again 

Brightly a moment and there reigned 

A majesty 'mid all her pain 

That daunted Julian, as she strove 

To rise upon a maiden's breast ; — 

" Prince Julian ! that thou had'st my love, 

*' And that in thine I was most blest, 

*• 'Tis bootless now to own ; my doom 



] 16 THE IIOUU AX WILL. 

•' Is sealed forever and the tomb 
*' Must be the resting-place of one 
" Who once — who yet loves thee alone ; 
" Thou hast my pardon while I live — 
" Forgive thyself as I forgive /" 
Backward she fell — faint grew her breath, 
Life left her cheek, her brow, her eye ; 
Slow o'er her heart came chilling death — 
Zulma is in eternity ! 



THE HOUR AT WILL. 

PART I. 

Tis only when the heat and dust and toil 

Of day have passed, my better heart can smile , 

'Tis only when in weariness and pain, 

My task hath ceased to bind my dizzy brain, 

That gentler thoughts and holier feelings come 

Like angel visitants, and guide me home — 

Home to the hallowed temple of the mind. 

Where heaven's own music rolls upon the wind. 

And, oh, while wandering 'mid the cold and low, 

And mocking Mammon with a smile and bow. 

While doomed to wear o'er deep contempt, applause, 

And crush my nature 'neath the world's vain laws, 

How, like a lost child, seeking home once more, 

My bosom brightens, and my soul doth soar ! 

How, like the eagle of my native clime. 

Genius aspires beyond the reach of Time ! 

Then, for a moment, glad oblivion throws 

Its deep veil o'er my trials and my woes, 



THK HOUR AT WILL. 117 

And trickling touches of a kindlier mood, 
Like summer evening o'er the ancient wood, 
Soothe evil passions, lull the heart to rest. 
And blend the spirit with the pure and blest ; 
And I forget that Fortune is my foe, 
And Man the fiend that reigns in human woe ; 
That lineal hatred o'er my childhood spread 
The gloom, though not the slumber of the dead, 
And yet prevails to sadden every scene 
Where hope and love and loveliness have been. 
All these pass from me in the hour of pride. 
Like smouldering wrecks down ocean's billowy tide. 
With do^vncast eyes and tiar'd head declin'd, 
His gold-wrought purple floating in the wind, 
Gazing on valley, forest, stream and flood, 
Against a rock the Persian monarch stood ; 
While, far below, his vassal millions lay 
Like bristling tigers couchant for their prey. 
Ardent as eagles, joyous as the lark 
Whose music melts along the silvery dark. 
Full of high hope of conquest, power and fame, — 
That golden shroud for every mortal name ! 
And, as he gazed upon this pomp of power 
One trump had summon'd to his palace bower, — 
The haughty Despot wept that Time should cast 
Their names, like ashes, on the fire-winged blast. 
That, ere three-score of hurrying years went by. 
His glorious millions, — each and all would die ! 
Each for himself, philosopher or bard. 
Must toil uncheered and be his own reward 
Through evils countless as the midnight dews — 
The victim votary of the thriftless muse- 
Till biu'sts the sun of Fame's rejoicing day, 



118 THE HOUR AT WILL. 

And the hours blossom like the buds of May. 

And Youth's dim hope out-blazes like a star 

High throned in heaven and gleaming from afar. 

And flatterers crawl around the honoured one 

Mocked when obscure and trampled when unknown ! 

What recks the world — stern, haughty and austere — 

From whose swoln eye slow drops the undried tear ? 

What recks the world if care and grief assail 

The heart that suffers though it will not quail ? 

If doubt and darkness gather round his way, 

Whose spirit revels in the light of day ? 

If, poor and friendless, Genius must submit 

And panier'd dullness crush the choisest wit ? 

If earth becomes, by man's inhuman guile, 

A hell, the deeper that the sun-beams smile ? 

And Mind, new lighted at the throne of God, 

Darken and sink and mingle with the sod ? 

What recks the world, ere wakes the son of Fame. 

Who blights and execrates an unknown name ? 

Or who bands forth a menial miscreant host 

And triumphs o'er archangel spirits lost ? 

■ — Dark are the shades that cloud thy mortal hourSj, 

Poor lonely wanderer from elysian bowers, 

And few the joys, earth's silken sons possess, 

Light the wild horrors of thy wilderness ! 

As sable clouds along the evening sky 
Glow with the glories of the sun's bright eye. 
So the dull toils of daily life assume, 
When Genius smiles, the beauty and the bloom 
Of unseen realms, where holiest spirits sing 
'Mid the fair gardens of an endless spring. 
Few and uncertain 'mid the cares of life. 



THE HOUK AT WILL. 119 

The sin, the sorrow, and the hate and strife, 
Are the brief hours devoted to the shrine 
Of Love, whose purest worship is divine, 
But these quick moments gladden and uplift, 
And bear us through the sublety and thrift. 
The coldness, darkness, solitude and want, 
The woes that wither though they cannot daunt. 
Raise and refine the grovelling works of man. 
And lead us back where Life in Love began. 
Like summer showers, when wanes the burning day, 
These hours of pride, athwart our weary way, 
Gleam with a mellow gladness and repose, 
That strengthen bleeding hearts to bear their woes, 
And through all wrong and evil guide us on. 
Though poor yet proud, though friendless not alone. 
Then fruit and blossom mingle on each tree. 
The soul soars gladly and the heart is free ; 
Soft airs float by with music on their wings. 
And the lyre warbles from a thousand strings ; 
The heart's best feelings — all the joys of youth, 
Dreams in the green- wood — hope and love and truth. 
Thoughts by lone fountains, in their freshest bloom. 
And chastened sorrow o'er affection's tomb- 
All — all come back and win the soul afar 
From earth's dark galley toil and rankling war, 
Gild the dense gloom of error, fraud and sin, 
And crown the altar of the heart within. 

Yet, like wild lightning lifting, fold on fold, 
Such awful gloom as wrapt the world of old, 
To show how green and beautiful beneath 
The earth lies covered with the veil of death. 
These high revealments mock the dazzled mind, 



120 THE IIOUK AT WILL. 

Leave, as they vanish, deeper gloom behind, 

Melt the touch'd heart that should be proud and stem, 

And, like frankincense gushing from an urn, 

O'erpower the vision, that should settle on 

The thin cold ashes of the dead alone. 

With feelings purified and sense refined 

And the veil'd glories of a mighty mind, 

The bard goes forth, from solitude sublime, 

To meet and grapple w^ith a w^orld of crime, 

Like a bright seraph in some distant star, 

To feel his spirit w^ith his fate at war, 

To know his greatness and to bear the scorn 

Of the miscreant menials on the dung-hill born, 

To walk abroad, with radiant Genius crowned, 

While crowded solitude hangs coldly round, 

And seek, once more, the muse's lonely room, 

And sigh to sink to slumber in the tomb ! 

Such is, hath been, will be the doom of minds 

That cast their glories in the world's vain winds ! 



PART II. 

Stars of the heart ! immortal lights that glow 
Along life's lone and weary way of wo. 
That lengthens, lingers like a pilgrim vowed 
To some far shrine he parts from in his shroud, 
How soft and soothingly ye come and spread 
A blooming veil around the changed and dead, 
Like the faint mind, inspire each drooping thought, 
And hymn the magic beauty ye have wrought ! 
There's not a desert on the Earth so drear, 
But fountains sometimes gush and gurgle near : 



THE HOUR AT WILL. 131 

There's not a wilderness so sad and lone 
Without its dweller and a kindred one ; 
There's not an iceberg in the arctic sea, 
But bears life, feeling, joy and liberty ; 
And every heart, however worn and lost 
To all it loved and idolized the most. 
However pierced and manacled, and cast 
A wreck and ruin on life's dewless waste — 
Against the storm of grief may still bear up, 
Though it hath drained affliction's poison cup. 
And smile oft-times and blend its wonted powers 
With minds unknown in childhood's leafy bowers. 
Such Nature's best ; while life prevails, there's hope* 
And strength still given with despair to cope — 
Despair ! oft uttered in a reckless mood, 
By earth's victims never understood. 
The grim, gaunt tyrant of the fiends who fell, 
Born of Remorse — the quenchless fires of hell 1 
From bosoms dark and rugged gushes forth 
Full many a stream to fertilize the Earth, 
As from the black rock of the desert poured 
The clear cold waters while the host adored ; 
And they, who walk in wisdom and in truth. 
May oft, 'mid strangers, drink the joys of youth, 
And find their sojourn gladdened by some voice, 
That bids the fainting and sick heart rejoice. 
Good, through victorious evil, oft appears. 
Justice may mark the guiltless suppliant's tears, 
Hope may rejoice in happier days to come. 
And truth leave not the world in utter gloom. 
Man clings to man through every wo and wrong, 
And woman wins the daring and the strong. 
To all, on whom the heartless world hath laid 



122 THE HOUR AT WILL. 

Its ban — to all confiding and betrayed 
By serpent lures, repulsed and cast aside 
By the red Moloch hand of menial pride — 
How bright, how cheeringly — the world forgot. 
And all the evils of the poor man's lot — 
Loved faces smile around their home of Love, 
Loved voices breathe the gladness of the Dove, 
And sooth the anguish of proud spirits stirred, 
By the soft magic of a gentle word ! 
Passions as dire as winds in wildest wrath 
And desolating as the lava's path. 
Sink into slumber, broken and subdued 
By the low voice of Love's sweet solitude. 
Deep hate and wild revenge have oft foregone 
Their fixed resolves while some belovod one, 
With few kind words and one ambrosial kiss. 
Filled a dark bosom with a seraph's bliss. 
Laws, manners, morals and traditions old. 
And customs antique as the banner's fold, 
Fortune and faith — dominion, pride, and power, 
And all that magnifies man's scepter'd hour, 
Rose up, like spectres, when in secret spoke 
Woman — and forth the Persian edict broke ! 
When War's deep trump awoke the world to arm> 
Search out the cause in woman's fatal charms ! 
When peace flies smiling o'er the bloomy realm, 
Lo ! angel love directs the monarch's helm ! 
When the fierce Bandit leaves the work of death, 
His wrong'd heart melts beneath affection's breath; 
When the blest Sabbath o'er the city throws 
A cheerful sanctity and hushed repose, 
Gaze on the mother when her children kneel — 
Few worship God — but every heart can feel ! 
Wheu drops the dagger from the madman's grasp 



THE HOUR AT WILL. 123 

Who folds his writhing form in love's own clasp, 

And with prophetic \^ows and burning tears, 

Leads mind to triumph in the coming years ? 

Who on the Statesman, in his household bowers, 

Bestows the tenderness of youthful hours, 

A.nd pillows on her breast the mighty mind 

Revered, admired, and dreaded by mankind ? 

Who shield the weakness, guide the scornful pride, 

And sooths — deserted by the world beside — 

The bitter sorrows of ambition thrown 

On the dark desert of despair alone ? 

Who casts o'er ruined hope and glory passed 

Verdure that breathes and blossoms o'er the waste ? 

Who, like the sunset* of an autumn even. 

Gives unto Earth the glorious light of heaven ? 

Woman, devoted, cheerful and serene. 

Lives in all laws and blends with every scene. 

Pours proud ambition through each burning vein, 

And tends the soldier on the battle plain ; 

Gives to the poet all his might of mind. 

And gilds the desert fancy leaves behind ; 

Uplifts the feeble, quells the daring, throws 

The hues of heaven o'er all desponding woes, 

Moves upon earth the pilgrim bound to love, 

And mounts, a seraph, to her God above ! 

Oft, when forsaken, trampled and reviled 
While on my solitude no eye hath smiled. 
When left to breast and buffet, as I might. 
The faithless billows of a stormy night, — 
Oft have I found in one beside me now, 
(Her of the starry eye and sunny brow) 
A. tender solace and a mild content 
Earth could not give with all her blandishment. 



124 THE HOUR AT WILL. 

And she hath cheered me with a spirit free 

To range the realms of high philosophy, 

A heart imbued with such ethereal power 

As wraps the saint in his sublimest hour, 

While her fair features, soft as twilight's gush, 

Lightened and flashed, and, with a solemn rush. 

Her words of truth and hope and love came o'er 

My heart, like moonlight on a rock-barr'd shore. 

And I have born the coward's dark attack, 

Hate's dungeon ordeal, envy's midnight rack, 

The scorn of fools, the sayings of the vile. 

The branded felon's hypocritic smile, 

The altered eye of friends, the sapient saws 

Of dotard pedants, and the moral laws 

Of convicts guiltier than the dungeon cell 

E'er held in chains, or deepest vault in hell — 

With a calm eye, a conscious brow that threw 

The reptile back to feed on demon dew. 

For still the angel of my pathway said 

" 'Twere just — but oh, strike not the serpent dead ! 

" He bears a death — a living scorpion death 

" In every pulse and vein and thought and breath, 

" Leave him the doom thy righteous hand would end- 

" Leave him on earth without a single friend 1" 

Shall I not praise the wise and winning art 

That drew the lightning from my burning heart t 

Shall I not feel as time leaves all my foes 

In the oblivion of unblest repose. 

And on our mingled tides of being run 

In little channels glancing to the sun, ^ 

That wisdom dwells with loveliness and gives 

A hallowed pleasure to our troubled lives, 

A conscious trust of happier days in store. 

For hearts undoubting, that in grief adore ? 



THE OKATH SCEIVE. 12S 

Without a fear that truth will not prevail, 
Without a glance at slander's thrice-forged tale, 
Prizing heaven's gifts too high to boast or vaunt 
Feeling a heart that danger cannot daunt, 
And, with contempt ineffable and strong, 
Beholding rioters in human wrong, 
With thee, my bride ! — and thee, my bright-eyed boy! 
I share my sorrow — ye partake my joy. 
Earth holds a home and coming time a name, 
That may not vanish from the roll of Fame ! 



THE DEATH SCENE. 

Glimmering amid the shadowy shapes that float 
In sickly Fancy's vision o'er the walls 
Of Death's lone room, the trembling taper burns 
Dimly, and guides my fearful eye to trace 
The wandering track of parting life upon 
The burning brow and sallow cheek of him 
Whose smile w^as paradise to me and mine. 
The autumnal wind breathes pantingly and come- 
With hollow sighs through yon high window o'er 
Thy feverish couch, my love ! and seems to sob 
Amid the waving curtains as't would tell 
My heart how desolate it will become 
When left in its lone widowhood to weep 
And wail and agonize at Memory's tale. 
The outward air is chill, but, oh, thy breast, 
My dying love ! is scorching with the fires 
That centre in thy heart, and thy hot breath 

11* 



126 THE DEATH SCENE. 

Heaves sobbingly, like the sirocco gale 

That heralds death ; and thou art speechless now 

Save what thy glaring eyes can tell, for life 

Is parting from thy bosom silently. 

Thy pulse is wild and wandering, and thy limbs 

Are writhing in convulsive agony, 

And, while thy spirit hovers o'er the verge 

Of Fate, thou canst not speak to me nor bid 

Thy chosen one a long farewell ! O Heaven ! 

Let thy sweet mercy wait upon his end 

And life's last struggle close — 'tis vain to hope 

For life — then take his soui on gentle wing 

Away, and let the sufferer rest with Thee ! 

Alas ! hath He who rules the universe 

Replied to my wild w^ish ? oh, give me back 

The spirit of my love for one brief hour — 'tis o'er ! 

*Tis o'er ! my love, my happiness, my hope. 

I sit beside a corse ! How deadly still 

Is the lone chamber he hath left ! The moan 

Of dying nature, and the bursting sigh 

Of a heart breaking, and the murmuring voice 

Of a delirious spirit — all are hushed ! 

The eye that kindled love in my young heart 

And told me I was blessed, is lustreless — 

And those dear lips, that oft illumed my soul, 

Are stifl^ening now ; those features exquisite, 

On which I often gazed as on a mirror 

Beaming with beauty, genius, feeling — all 

That love adores and honor sanctifies, 

Collapse in their dread slumbers and assume 

The ashen deadliness of soulless dust. 

And must it be, my love ! that thou wilt sleep 

Where I can never watch thy wants and glide 

Around, thy gentle minister ? No more 



THE DEATH SCENE. 127 

Read voiceless wishes in thy pleading eye 

And soothingly discharge them ? Art thou gone, 

Or is it but a dream ? O thou dost dwell 

Within my heart unchangeably as wont 

And ever wilt ! — I sit beside the Dead 

Alone, while round me the world is bent 

On pleasure — on a shadow from the dust ! 

The bright blue wave of Hudson rolls below 

My solitary view and sounds of joy 

Fling music o'er its waters and the voice 

Of gayety is rising on my ear, — 

Like banquet mirth amid the pyramids. 

O the full consciousness of utter loss ! 

The single wretchedness of cureless woe 

While all around are gay ! The chaos wild 

Of billowy thought, on whose tumultuous tides 

Hopes, powers and passions — all the elements 

Of heart and soul in foamy whirlpools toss 

'Till whelmed in ruin ! — Lovely babe ! thou hast 

No father now, and where, my orphan child ! 

Will close our wanderings ? I have no home 

For thee, dove of the storm without an ark 

To bear thee o'er the waters of the Waste ! 

Cold, voiceless mansion of my ruined love ! 

I'll close thine eyes and kiss thy pallid lips. 

And watch beside thee for the livelong night — 

The last, last night I shall behold thy form ! 

O agony, and they will bury thee ! 

Will snatch thee from the pillow of my heart, 

And lay thee in the damp unbreathing tomb ! 

Sleep, my sweet child ! thou knowest not the pain 

Of the sad bosom that thou slumberest on. 

It is some joy that thou feel'st not the loss 

Of him who would have worshipped his firstborn. 



128 THE DEATH SCENE. 

The world is silent round me ; pale the moon 

Gleams on the clay-shut eyes of him who loved 

Her gentle light in life, and o'er his cold, 

Collapsed, unchanging, melancholy face 

Plays her transparent beam of love. My heart I 

Thy bleeding tears would drown my soul, if yet 

One being lived not in my life to tell 

How dear he was to me. Farewell, my love ! 

Our slumbers now will be no more as wont ! 

Yet e'en in paradise thou wilt behold 

Thine earthly love and bend from heaven to shed 

Immortal hopes o'er nature's funeral urn. 

*■**### 

****** 
Days, weeks and months passed o'er me and were seen 
Vanishing away with that pale, meek content 
Which doth exist, against the spirit's will. 
So glad was I to feel that burden. Time, 
Dropping from my pierced heart ; for I did live 
Among, but yet not with the living — tears 
Suppressed within the fountains of the soul, 
Congealed like waters in deep cavern-halls. 
My being passed 'mid shadows, and the things 
Familiar once assumed or unknown form 
Or appendage unknown, and to my eye 
The faces erst beloved appeared like those 
Imagination images in dreams; 
And oft I feared to speak, lest I should be 
Abandoned to my woe ; and, if I spake. 
My voice re-echoed round me like the cries 
Of shipwrecked mariners at night. My brain 
Was fevered with my dreadful anguish, which 
Grew by repression, like the Rebel Flower,* 
• The Camomile 



THE DEATH SCENE. 129 

Until it mastered reason, or whate'er 

Name that observant faculty doth bear 

Whose power is o'er the visible universe. 

There w^as a dread unmeasured, in my thought, 

A vague idea of something horrible. 

And I lived on like one in broken sleep. 

Forever searching for some lost companion, 

And wandering in mazes dark as doom, 

Where the heart faints and fails, and hope expires. 

Yet amid all the estranging of my love 

I still clung to my child ; a mothei's heart 

Retains its deep devotion to her dear 

And pang-bought offspring, when the woman's mind 

Is laid in ruins ; and her bosom burns 

With love instinctive for an innocent 

And lovely creature whom her spirit knows 

Only as something worthy to be loved. 

Folding the orphan to my heart, I went 

Abroad the mansion witlessly, and searched 

Its chambers desolate, and then returned 

In wildered disappointment that the thing 

I looked for could no where be found. — I sat 

In the lone winter nights before the dim 

And melancholy embers, and did hush 

My breath while listening for the tread of him 

Who ever spent his evenings ^vith his love 

In social converse ; — but he came not, so 

I sighed and murmured to my prattling babe 

That he would soon return ; but then I thought 

That he had gone to a far land and left 

His duties to my care and faithful watch. 

And so I oped his escritoir and saw 

His papers, pens and pencils and all things 

Dis;.' : od e'en as he left them, and I felt 



130 TRR DKATH SCENE. 

That I could not arrange them otherwise 

If they were wrong; — his closet then I search 

And there his vestments hung familiarly 

And appositely arrayed. — I returned 

From such short wanderings sad, and sometime« 

thought 
My love had told me he should dwell no more 
Upon the earth — and then my heart did feel 
As if it floated in a lava sea. 
Thus passed my strange existence from the da; 
He died until disease my infant laid 
Upon his suffering couch, and I became 
His sleepless watcher. Long I sat beside 
The lovely one, attending all his wants 
And sick caprices uncomplainingly, 
Yet all unconscious that he was my son. 
Till one said he was dying — then there flashed 
Through my dark spirit thoughts long dead, and tears 
Quenched the dull fire that burned upon my brain. 
And left my heart's fair path a desert way. 
Calm though 'twas dreary. Life hath direful ills 
And woes and sufferings, but the fiercest lie 
In madness, e'er in dread of heaven and earth. 
It cannot weep — it doth not think, and yet 
It hath both tears and thoughts, the one of blood. 
Of pangs the other ; all its feelings coil 
Like serpents round the heart and sting the core 
Unceasingly, and all the sweet ideas 
Of love and friendship round the racked brain twine 
Like knotted adders, venomous and blind. 
Pierce, O thou Holy One ! the heart, but spare 
The spirit ! Let thy judgments fall upon 
The affections, but preserve the immortal soul 1 



THE DEATH SCENE. 13l 

My child was spared me ; cind the tale I tell 
Was gathered from the loved ones who beheld 
But could not soothe my agony, and those 
Impressions I retain of sights and sounds 
That floated by me in bewilderment. 

* * # * * 

It was the Sabbath's herald eve ; and pained 
With melancholy musings, such as hearts 
Bleeding with sorrow nourish, forth I went 
To gaze on nature's pensive face and smile 
Of virgin softness, and I felt the sense 
Of her deep loveliness stealing o'er my woes 
While watching her pure countenance, now ve 
In moonlight and her changeful robes of green, 
Azure and silver-blended, while she looked 
Like one who was to me what angels are 
To paradise — the living fount of joy. 
A diamond star was floating 'mid the waves 
Of pearl, that danced along the silver wake 
Of Dian's bark, and it did seem like love 
Adorning innocence ; while in the midst 
Of ether hung the rosy isles of bliss, 
Where spirits as they bear the bests of heaven 
And warder Zions towers, lift up the songs 
That soaring souls forever sing above. 
The thought of meeting my beloved again. 
Filled all my soul with gladness ; for we part 
But for a little season — a brief day. 
From earth to heaven, and, like the evening st 
Upon the azure verge of summer's sky, 
The soul embraceth two eternities. 

A sea of voices waked me from my drp-nms 
Of holier spheres, and told me of the earth. 



> 



132 THE DEATH SCENE. 



That held in its cold bosom all my loves, 

Save one svi^eet babe, the image of its sire 

Upon his lonely v^ridow's heart ! O Earth ! 

Cold is the couch thy sons must sleep upon, 

And dark the chambers of their slumber deep. 

I looked around me and the vestal moon 

Was silvering the waters, o'er which scud. 

Swan-like, full many a silent sail bound far, 

Perchance, to fathomless eternity ! 

And dazzling lamps, that seemed in the pale moon 

Like crime obtruding his unholy light 

Before rose-beaming virtue, glared above 

The blushing waters as they laughed in scorn. 

And in a sea-dome, studded o'er with lights 

That mocked the diamond, many a voice arose 

In merriment well feigned, and many a form 

Of outward splendour glided round to find 

Something to tell how happy all must be 

Who w^oo and win the pleasures of the world. 

Like earth's gay hopes, full oft a column rose 

Of fire far in the azure vault of night, 

And then it burst and vanished ! some did watch 

The glittering fragments till they fell — then sighed — 

And I sighed too — they told me of my joys ! 

It was no scene for me — the sights I saw 

Were once shared with those eyes that wake no more 

The voices that I heard were all unknown ; 

The arm I held was not my wedded lord's ! 

'Tis bitter to compare our passing years ! 

The Dead ! where are they now ? The Living ! wha\ 

Are they to those whose hearts are in the tomb ? 

Slow I returned to my lone room, and kissed 

My sleeping child, and looked to heaven — and wept. 



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